in the rain, sitting on theAm-trak all the way up toWindsor County, making the trek to his house, and then having to do it all in reverse first thing in the morning in order to be back at work, his will to defend his wife against her own vulnerabil-ity to her desires, or from her weakness, all ofa sudden is subsumed by a vast entropy.
This is not the first time he has sat in these rooms wondering ifIris is betraying him.He recognizes his own jealous nature, knows he could not trust the truest Desdemona, can recall with a measure ofgood-natured self- mocking that he was suspicious ofIris even when she was pregnant—he thought she had a crush on her obstetrician, a silver-haired Pakistani whom she would telephone for advice at the slightest physical provoca- tion.Before going to his office for her regular appointments, Iris would spend two hours in the bathroom, showering, sprinkling herselfwith baby powder, polishing her nails, oiling her hair—and she’d wear some-thing dark and vertically striped for the slimming effect, as ifshe wanted to camouflage her pregnancy.He saw how unlikely it was.Yet marriage to Iris made his impulse toward jealousy practically hair-trigger, his heart is like a bank that has been outfitted with an alarm system that is far too sen-sitive, one that can be tripped by a little footstep.
Though Hampton looks back at some ofhis former suspicions and realizes they were silly and unjust, he must nevertheless continue to live with the degrading agonies ofjealousy, and during these last months in NewYork part ofhis strategy for survival has been to commit small acts ofunfaithfulness himself.He’s not sure how he came upon this plan, but the fact is he can tolerate the idea ofIris’s being touched by another man only ifhe can prove and re- prove to himself that mere physical intimacy is a matter ofrelatively small importance—he must, in fact, degrade the very thing he wishes to exalt.The adultery Hampton commits is highly controlled:he spends two or three hours a month with one oftwo pros-titutes who, for $150 an hour, come to his apartment, spread lotion over his body, massage him, and masturbate him to a quick milky climax, the vehemence ofwhich pleasantly surprises him every time.He has settled on these two particular women, after responding to several advertise-ments in the free weekly newspapers that carry in their back pages list-ings for escort services and unlicensed masseuses.He has seen ten different prostitutes in all and has had actual intercourse with none of them—though intercourse is available for an extra charge.He has come close to intercourse a couple oftimes—particularly with Mia, the Chi-nese girl, whose feathery touch up and down his buttocks, combined with the blank, stoned-out expression on her unhappy face, has proved particularly arousing—but he has, to this point, hung on to his resolve to not risk picking up a disease, and when Mia says“You wanna put it in me now?”he can, his mouth parched with desire, shake his head no.
The other woman he hires to arouse and release him is anAfricanAmerican calling herselfAnyuh—she has given him an engraved business card with her name and cell phone number, which he daringly keeps in his wallet.Anyuh —buxom, large-hipped, with a little girlie laugh, big smutty eyes, and long peach fingernails—also costs $150 for a massage and a hand job and twice that for real sex.At those prices, most ofher clients are white.What this means is that she treats Hampton with an excess of familiarity that he finds off-putting;he does not want to be her one black client, her brotherly confidant, with whom she prattles on about her fi-nancial woes.Anyuh makes no attempt at coquetry, eschewing seduction for yawns and cabbagey little burps;while she works over his body, she places her cell phone right next to his pillow, where it continually chirps right into his ear as other clients pursue her far into the night.
He knows Mia’s number by heart and he dials it quickly.Her voice on the phone sounds sad, a bit bronchial, but he chooses to ignore that and feels somehow that things are suddenly going his way when she says she can be over in twenty minutes.
Mia is never early for their appointments and the rainstorm will probably make her even later than usual.Nevertheless, Hampton hurries to prepare himself for her.He goes into his bedroom and as he strips offhis dark-gray suit, his white shirt and striped tie, he also removes the framed photographs ofIris and Nelson from his bedside table, puts them in the closet, along with his clothes.Naked, he sits on the side ofthe modest double bed— the bed that he and Iris first made love in.A vision ofIris in this very bed—on her hands and knees, looking back at him over her shoulder.Oh, the pain ofthat.
From where he sits he can see himself in the wall mirror.He sits up straighter, sucks in what little gut he has, regards himself with some entirely personal mixture ofadmiration and disgust.He lifts his arm, smells himself.
The workday leaves him acrid.He walks quickly into the bathroom, turns on the shower, makes it as hot as he can bear.When Mia arrives, he wants her to smell only the peppermint-scented antibacterial soap, the honey and almond shampoo.He opens his mouth, lets the steaming water rush in.It occurs to him for a moment that he is drowning himself;he turns his back to the shower, bends slightly, purifying his anus.The thought that Mia might pick up a whiffofsomething offensive while she works him over is intolerable.
Kate sits in Ruby’s room, listening to her red radio.It amazes her that there are stations playing music, it seems unforgivable, like Nero’s fiddling.With increasing impatience, she races through the dial, search-ing for news.She wants to be sure there are people out there who know that disaster has struck, who are putting it into some sort ofcon-text.How many people are trapped? How many houses are without electricity? How many roads are closed? She wants numbers.At last, she finds a news reader, a woman with a stainless-steel voice.Kate crouches forward in Ruby’s dark little room, touches the radio as ifit were a friend.
The newscaster is reporting new developments in the O.J.Simpson murder trial, now in its tenth month.Today’s story is not so much about the case as it is about the reporting ofthe case—a reporter from one of the weekly magazines was heard calling Simpson a nigger (news radio said the reporter used“a racial epithet”but everyone knew what that meant) and now the reporter’s employers have weighed in on the sub-ject, releasing a statement to the effect that the writer’s contract with the magazine has been terminated“by mutual consent.”
After a couple more stories and a few noisy advertising spots, the national news switches to the local reports.Now a man, presumably close by, is reading the news.An estimated seventy thousand homes are with-out electricity.All major roadways are closed.County officials have no idea when things will be back to normal.The U.S.Weather Service says there may be as much as another foot ofsnow falling in the next eight hours.There have been eleven fatalities so far.“And in Leyden, there’s a report that the power outage has disabled the security system at a local lockup for wayward boys, Star ofBethlehem.According to Star ofBeth-lehem officials, six ofthe youths have left the facility and are somewhere in the area.”He pauses and then adds,“Wow.”
Kate picks up Ruby’s radio and walks out with it, into the candlelit hall.These candles were Daniel’s purchase, scented ones, and Kate is re-pelledby their smell.She walks through the living room, where one candle burns, and into the kitchen, where she has lit a dozen votive candles.They send their plaintive light through beaded glass holders.
She turns the radio off, preserving the batteries, and sets it on the kitchen table.The temperature in the house is dropping, degree by degree, and in the place ofhomely warmth comes dampness and a growing sense ofdisorder.She wants something to drink, something to warm her.Some-thing nonalcoholic.Tea.The stove is gas, so it doesn’t matter ifthere’s no electricity.She brings the kettle to the faucet, but the water pump runs on electricity and when she turns on the cold water, the pipes bang and only a faint unwholesome drool comes out.
Suddenly, she sees a flicker ofmotion from the corner ofher eye.She turns quickly toward the window.At first all she can see is her own re-flection.But then she sees it again:something wishing not to be seen.
She reaches for the flashlight, shines it through the window, but it throws its own shining face back at her.Kate then opens the window, let-ting precious heat escape, letting in a whoosh ofsnow that sweeps in like the tail ofa comet.Now she shines the flashlight into the blizzard.Noth-ing.Nothing.But then she sees them.Footprints.Cratered into the snow, several pairs, stopping thirty feet from her house.
She feels a fear beyond any she has ever experienced, and she makes it worse by asking herself,
Her heart pounding, and her stomach, too, like a second, sour heart,
Kate pulls the window closed, locks it.She locks the back door, too, and as she does, she reaches for the phone.She pushes the on button—but there is no dial tone.It’s a cordless phone, it works offelectricity.She needs the phone upstairs in her study, the only old-style phone in the house.She is not certain whom she is about to call.Surely the police have too much on their hands to respond to some woman seven miles outside oftown who is pretty sure she saw some footprints in the snow.Even if she were to tell them she has seen the escaped Star ofBethlehem kids—what would the police do?What
She sweeps the flashlight back and forth as she walks through the house, an oar oflight that rows through the sea ofdarkness.She realizes the only person she can call, the only person she wants to call is Daniel.
