A Ship Made of Paper

”We may have our hard times,”Kate says,“and we may have to take breaks from each other, maybe long breaks.But I don’t think we’ll ever be free ofeach other.And not because we’re the most romantic couple in the world, or anything like that.It’s a mysterious connection, a fuck-ing mystery…”She laughs.“Or a not-fucking mystery, or maybe a fucking-once-in-a-while mystery.Who knows? But I was sure ofit from the first time I met you, I just never told you.”

She’s silent and Daniel realizes he must say something.“Really?”

“Yes.I thought to myself, I’m never going to get away from this guy.”

“Did you want to?”

“And then I thought, And he’s never going to get away from me.”She rolls away from him but then slides over, pressing her hindquarters against his hip.“And I feel even stronger about it now.I just feel so grate-ful.I’ve got you, and Ruby, and my talent, and what’s left ofmy looks.”

She presses herselfharder against him.“I know what you’re thinking.

She’s drunk, she’s drunk.Once again.But I’m not.I was, maybe.Back at the restaurant, with those terrible people.But I’m sober now, and mean-ing every word.I couldn’t get drunk ifI tried.”

“Have you been trying?”Daniel asks.

He regrets saying it.It sounds so put-upon, so long-suffering.But the words are out, there’s no way to take them back.He waits for her reply, already devising how he will defend himself.But the plans aren’t necessary.He has not hurt her feelings, he has not irritated her.She is breathing deeply, and a few moments later her breaths deepen with a lit-tle aural fringe ofsnore.

Outside, an owl screeches in triumph.From farther away comes the manic whoop ofcoyotes.The colder it gets outside the more the crea-tures ofthe night seem to celebrate their catches, the triumph ofhaving survived another season.The world belongs to those who can satisfy their hunger.The rest are food.Even the stars in the sky shine out the story oftheir own survival.

[3]

They had no idea where they were going.They walked.The crunch of their foot-steps.The cries of invisible birds.Daniel cupped his hands around his mouth and called Marie’s name, silencing the birds.The noise of their footsteps on the brittle layer of dried leaves that covered the forest floor was like a saw going tirelessly back and forth.

They walked up a hill, zigzagging around fallen trees and swirls of bramble.

Daniel walked in front.He looked over his shoulder.Hampton was having a hard time keeping his balance.

“I’m ruining these shoes,”Hampton said.He leaned against a partially fallen

cherry tree and looked at the sole of his English cordovan.The leather was shiny, rosy and moist, like a human tongue.

The next morning, Daniel takes Ruby with him to a new bakery in the village, where he plies her with chocolate croissants and chocolate milk.Daniel recalls Iris having mentioned this place—chrome and glass, with a sort of1940s feel, overpriced, but with comfortable, long-legged chairs lined up facing the huge window overlooking Broadway— and he sits there with Ruby, ostensibly reading the paper and drinking espresso, but in reality watching for Iris or her car.After an hour ofthis maddening activity, during which he is unable to read more than a few headlines, and the coffee tastes like scorched ink, he takes Ruby back home with a cup oflatte and a cranberry muffin for Kate, who, to his surprise, is awake and dressed when they return.

“Where was everybody?”she asks.

”Breakfast,”he says, handing her the takeout bag.

”What did people eat in pre-muffinAmerica?”Kate asks, peering into the bag.She notices Ruby, whose mouth is ringed with chocolate and whoseT-shirt is spotted with it.Kate looks questioningly at Daniel.

“That’s what happens to little girls whose mothers sleep late,”he says, surprising himself with the bite ofhis own voice.

“I want to play with Nelson,”Ruby says.

It seems strange to Daniel:as his heart swells from the added freight oflove and desire, it becomes in its fullness less and less substantial, un-til it is like a feather in a stiffwind, unpredictably blowing this way and that, spiraling up, plunging down, rocketing sideways at the slightest provocation—the lucky-sounding ring ofthe phone, the melancholy shift ofthe afternoon light, the hum ofan oncoming car.He has resisted all morning the treacherous impulse to plant in Ruby the idea that she and Nelson get together today, but now, God bless her, she has come up with the idea all on her own, and his spirits soar.

“I don’t think so,”Kate says.“Nelson’s father is home and that’s their private time over at Nelson’s house.”

Ruby looks at Kate, squinting, wringing her little hands, as she tries to think ofsome counterargument to this.But the combination ofKate’s professional needs and temperament has made the concept of“private time”sacred.Still, Ruby cannot hide her disappointment, and she even manages to enter into a brief, unsuccessful negotiation, during which Daniel stands transfixed, unable to shake the feeling that his happiness hangs in the balance.

In the end, Kate prevails.Not only can Ruby not go to Nelson’s house, but Nelson cannot come to hers.And when Ruby counters with all she has left—“Then I’m going to be so bored”—Kate says that maybe they can all go to Lubochevsky Farms, where the enterprising owners have devised a way to get tourists and even some ofthe locals to pay for the privilege ofharvesting the annual raspberry and apple crops.Daniel is taken aback by Kate’s suggestion.He cannot imagine her climbing the rickety stepladders, filling the flimsy baskets with apples, enduring the sunlight and the hefty autumnal bees.And then what? Eat the apples? In three years ofknowing her he has never seen her take a bite ofan apple.

No.There is only one explanation.She is concocting this little outing as a way ofroping him in, and when Daniel realizes this he reacts like some-one jumping away from an onrushing car.

“I have to go to the office,”he says.He feels the desperation ofa gambler:ifhe can just sit at the table, then maybe he can catch a card.

“On a Saturday?”

“Sorry.It happens.”He is experiencing that bicameral lunacy ofa man with a secret life;he is talking to Kate, making his excuses, arrang-ing his features in a way that would suggest regret.He is already gone.

“I need to work, too,”she says.“I’ve got two O.J.articles going, and both are due.”

“What is with you and that case? I thought you were a novelist.”

“He butchered his wife and might end up walking.I know we like to cheer for theAfrican-American side, but there is a question ofjustice at stake.I’m sure even Iris Davenport would agree with that.”

It is unnerving to hear her say Iris’s name, and he shifts his eyes, afraid for a moment that he might give himself away, though he is beginning to wonder ifthere is much secrecy to his secret life.He might be no better hidden than an ostrich with its head in the sand and fat feathered ass in the air.

“Why don’t we split the day, then?”he says.“All I need is two or three hours.I can take them now or I can take them in the afternoon.Or I can take them at night, for that matter.”It really doesn’t matter.All he needs is to get out ofthis house for a couple ofhours.But as soon as that thought crosses his mind, it is replaced by a second, more urgent idea.

He should go first, then Kate could work in the afternoon, and then he could take more time away in the evening.That way he could have as many as six hours.To do what?That part hasn’t been worked out yet.To cruise by Iris’s house?To patrol the village in search ofher car?To sit at his desk dialing and redialing her number?

“All right,”Kate says, her voice measured, a little cool.“Then you go first.”He knows she is onto him.He can feel the pressure ofher intelli-gence and her deep common sense.He feels like a half-wit miscreant tracked by a master sleuth.

His sense ofimpending exposure quickens his pace, and in minutes he is out ofthe house, in his car, and on his way to somewhere or other.

From the house onWillow Lane to his office in the middle oftown is a ten-minute drive and one that could, without any loss oftravel effi-ciency, bring him past Iris’s house, ifhe should choose to take that route, which he