A Ship Made of Paper

Yet somehow, through force ofwill, and by doggedly obeying the commands ofhis own desire, he is able to stay with her, and now they lie next to each other, panting and relieved.In the dim light ofhis bedroom-in-exile (he cannot imagine making his life in this house;he occupies it like a fugitive),Iris dozes off, her legs pressed together, her arms at her side, like a child miming sleep.A gentle snore hovers above her lips.

Daniel props himself up on his elbow and gazes down at her.Her breasts are nearly flat against her, the nipples elongated and with a slight droop from two years ofnursing Nelson.Her belly gently swells with each breath.What ifhis child were growing in there?

Not wanting to disturb her sleep, and not trusting himself to keep from touching her, Daniel slips out ofbed and walks as softly as he can into the front room.Naked, he sits on the sofa, finds the remote control under a cushion, and turns on theTV.The Guns of Navaroneis no longer playing, and he flips through the channels looking for something that can hold his interest for ten or fifteen minutes, after which time he feels he ought to wake Iris.He settles on one ofthe all-news cable channels, where a black lawyer named Reginald McTeer is holding forth about the O.J.Simpson case.Daniel has often seen McTeer’s endlessly smiling, media-friendly face onTV.The program must have sent a crew to McTeer’s office because he is seated at a grand desk, with shelves oflaw books framing a view ofmidtown Manhattan behind him.recorded earlier todayflashes on the bottom ofthe screen.McTeer is a stocky man in a dark suit and his signature ten-gallon cowboy hat, bright white with a red satin band.A picture ofhis light-skinned wife and their three fair children is on his desk, as well as photographs ofMcTeer enjoying his expensive hobbies and vacations—on safari, in the cockpit ofhis Mooney, on horseback, and with various well-knowns from the worlds ofpolitics and entertainment.He speaks like a man comfortable with the sound ofhis own voice, with the exhorting enthusiasm ofa preacher, or a Cadillac salesman.

“You know, Jim, all the media’s going crazy because Mr.O.J.Simpson got himself a team offirst-rate lawyers.Everyone’s going on about justice for sale.And I say:more power to him.This isAmerica, baby.

Everything’s for sale.You think the poor get the same medical care as the rich? Everything is for sale, top to bottom.What you’ve got to under-stand is that’s how the system works, that’s just what the man’s got to do.

InAmerica green trumps blackandwhite.”

McTeer smiles, and then suddenly theTV shows Jim Klein sitting in the cable station’s studio, watching McTeer on a large monitor.Klein, a silver-haired man in a blue blazer, once a newscaster for one ofthe net-works, and now nearing the end ofhis broadcast career, swivels in his chair and faces another large monitor.

It’s Kate, in Leyden, sitting on the sofa in the living room.Daniel stares at her image for several seconds, not even entirely believing it is actually her.She looks relaxed.Her legs are crossed, her delicate, patri-cian hands are folded onto her lap.She wears a white blouse, a strand of pearls.As she speaks, her name appears in writing on the bottom ofthe screen:kate ellisauthor and simpson expertnew york.

“You know, Jim, it’s very interesting,”Kate is saying,“and not without significance, that, for all his talk about the law and justice, and about the green and the white and the black, Mr.McTeer fails to mention that he was himself part ofthe original team oflawyers put together for Simpson’s defense.”As soon as she says this, the broadcast goes to a split-screen format and McTeer can be seen shaking his head, and waving his hand dismissively at the camera, clearly indicating that Kate’s comments are beneath contempt.

But Kate cannot see McTeer and she continues, undaunted, her cultured voice brimming with self- confidence.Daniel leans forward, his hands resting on his square, bare knees.She seems entirely herself, yet at the same time somehow perfect for television.It’s been months since he has seen her looking so relaxed.“Mr.McTeer was asked to be a part of O.J.’s DreamTeam and he declined.Why?Well, a statement Mr.McTeer made to the press last year should put his actions in a clear light.He said…”Kateglances at a little notebook she has left next to her on the sofa.With a lurch, Daniel recognizes it—it’s a little spiral notebook with a picture ofa whale on the cover, which he bought for her two summers ago on a weekend trip to Nantucket.“‘Life is too short, and life is too precious, and there are still things on earth that money can’t buy.’”

“With all due respect, Ms.Ellis, you can’t believe everything you read in the press,”McTeer says.“There are more writers out there than you can shake a stick at, and some ofthem are putting groceries on the table by writing a lot ofdamn foolishness about O.J.Simpson.”

“Okay,”Jim Klein says.“Let me ask you something, Kate Ellis.You’ve been perceived by some as O.J.Simpson’s most potent enemy in the press, and there have been a few—and I’m sure you’ve heard this, so I’m not saying anything you haven’t dealt with, and I’m certainly not trying to imply any agreement with this statement—but some have said that your articles about the case…”Klein picks up a thick, glossy magazine and holds it up to the camera:the cover is a portrait ofO.J.,his skin sev-eral shades darker than its actual color, posed on a dark street, grinning, holding a pair ofleather gloves in one hand, with the other hand hidden behind his back.“Show a certain insensitivity to the racial implications of the case against Mr.Simpson.”

“There are no racial implications, Jim.None that matter, anyhow.”

“Mighty easy for you to say, Miss Ellis,”McTeer says with a laugh.

”This is a murder case, Mr.McTeer,”Kate says.“Not a debate about civil rights.”

“Are you a lawyer in your spare time, Miss Ellis?”McTeer asks.

”No.But, ifit matters, I happen to live with a lawyer, and a very fine lawyer…”

Instinctively, Daniel grabs the remote control, but then is unsure whether he wants to turn the volume up or down.He points it toward the set without pressing any buttons.Behind Kate, not quite in focus, is the fireplace, the mantel covered with framed snapshots ofthe three ofthem.

“I fell asleep.”

Startled, abashed, as ifcaught with pornography, Daniel looks at Iris.

She, too, is naked, with one hand massaging her eyes and the other fig-leafed over her middle.

“A woman has been brutally murdered,”Kate is saying,“and there is at this point a good chance that the man who is clearly responsible for her death is going to go free.All the talk about racist cops…”

“What is this?”Iris asks, sitting next to Daniel, draping her leg over him.

”TV,”says Daniel.

”Who is she talking about?”

“O.J.Simpson.Who else?”

“I don’t know.”

“That this man has become some sort ofrebel-hero to theAfricanAmerican community,”Kate is saying,“is completely ludicrous, and of-fensive.That rappers and other prominent blacks are wearing‘Free O.J.’ T-shirts is also ludicrous and offensive.We have to ask ourselves:Are we a nation oflaws, or aren’t we?”

“We are a nation oflaws,”McTeer says.

”Who’s that freak?”Iris asks.

”Reginald McTeer, a lawyer.”

“And the foundation ofour legal system,”McTeer continues,“is a man or a woman is presumed innocent until proven guilty.Without that presumption, there is no justice.And without justice there is no peace.”

Kate rolls her eyes.“I don’t know anyone who doesn’t believe that O.J.Simpson murdered Nicole Brown and Ron Goldman.”

“I know plenty ofpeople who have grave doubts about that, Miss Ellis,”McTeer says.“You should get out more.The whole world isn’t in the editorial offices ofsome fancy magazine.Go into the kitchen in some of the lavish restaurants where you eat and ask the people who have been cooking your food, ask them what they think, or ask the woman who cleans your house.”

“I’m the woman who cleans my house, Mr.McTeer, and I say he’sguilty.”

“She’s in your house,”Iris says.

”I know.”

“Look at the windows.It’s light out.When was this?”

Daniel puts up a hand to silence her.“Wait.”He has surprised himself.A few months ago he would have gone to practically any lengths to hear the sound ofIris’s voice and now he is shushing her.“I just want to hear this,”he adds softly.Then, still nervous that he may have hurt her feelings, he further adds,“It was videotaped earlier today.”He pats her knee reassuringly.

Iris grabs his hand, ferocious yet playful.She kisses the back ofit, turns it over and kisses his palm, and then puts first one finger and then a second into her mouth, and sucks on them, and then, when he lets out a little involuntary whimper ofpleasure, she slides offthe sofa, positions herselfbetween his legs, forces his knees apart— not that he resists her in any but the most perfunctory way—and buries her face in his lap, kiss-ing his cock until it