The fourth watcher

“It’s all terrible,” Rose says. “I’m taking these books back tomorrow, every single one of them. I ordered steak from the Barbican. Your father will like steak. You always like steak.”

“My father will love anything you cook,” he says, finally locating a Singha and reaching over several dishes to get to it. “Anyway, you don’t want to waste all this.”

“We’ll eat it tomorrow. After they leave.”

“Rose,” Rafferty says, popping the can. “My father isn’t even going to taste anything. He’s more nervous than you are.”

“I’m not nervous,” Rose says nervously. She steps around him and closes the refrigerator with the air of someone drawing a veil over a dicey past. “Your clothes are on the bed. I chose them. I got that stain off your slacks. And he’ll love steak.”

He knocks back half the beer. “Listen, I have to tell you something.”

She’s halfway out of the room, but she stops. “You mean now?”

“It’s about Frank.” And he tells her all of it, about how his father manipulated him, about Irwin Lee. When he is finished, she continues to look at him as though expecting more.

“And?” she finally says.

Rafferty looks at the tension in her body, and he thinks his heart will explode. “And I love you,” he says, giving up. “More than I’ve ever been able to say.”

“Then make me happy,” she says, spinning the bracelet around her wrist like a twenty-four-karat hula hoop. “Get dressed.”

The doorbell rings as he is buttoning his shirt-one he’s never seen before-and his stomach muscles tie themselves into an instant knot, but from the sound of Rose’s voice it’s the delivery from the Barbican. He hears the clatter of things being cleared away and wonders how many kilos of rare beef Rose ordered. He checks himself in the mirror, decides he’s still relatively nice-looking, and suddenly thinks of Miaow.

The smiley face is on the door, but he knocks anyway.

“I’m home,” Miaow says, and he opens the door.

She is sitting in front of her mirror, braiding her hair so tightly it looks painful. Her eyes meet his in the mirror. She regards him critically without turning and says, “You look nice. I picked out the shirt at the store.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“It’s okay,” she says, eyeing it in the mirror.

“Are you all right?”

Now she does turn. She gives him a squint as though he’s gone out of focus. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well, you know. . I mean, tonight is. . It’s the first. . I mean, if you want to talk about it or anything. .” She is still looking at him. “You know?” he adds.

“I got along with Ping,” she says, “and he was going to shoot me. This won’t be that hard.”

“He’s going to love you.”

She purses her mouth and tugs it to one side. “Maybe. Maybe I’ll love him, too. Maybe we’ll start by just liking each other.”

“You and Rose, the miracle girls,” Rafferty says. “How can I be so lucky?”

“Beats me,” Miaow says. “I put water on my hair. Does it look good?”

“You look beautiful.”

“I hope so,” she says. “It would be nice to be beautiful.” She turns back to the mirror and studies herself. “They’ll come soon. Go away now, okay?”

“I’m gone.” He closes the door and, just for a moment, leans against the wall, every muscle in his body slack with love. “We’re back,” he says aloud. “We’re all back.”

When the doorbell rings again, Rose calls from the kitchen, “You.”

Rafferty takes a breath deep enough to empty the room and opens the door. Frank stands there in an ancient, rumpled tweed sport coat, his right arm clamped rigidly to his body with three bottles of wine beneath it. Ming Li stands beside him, looking as cool and remote as ever, except that she has half of her father’s left sleeve knotted in her fist. Her knuckles are paper white. Hanging upside down in her other hand, completely forgotten, is a bouquet of flowers.

Without thinking, Rafferty makes a move to shake his father’s hand, sees a spark of something like panic in Frank’s eyes, and has a sudden vision of him extending his hand and dropping the wine. So instead he pats his father on the shoulder and says, “Hello, Frank, Ming Li. Give you a hand with those?” and reaches for the bottles.

“Poke,” Rose says from behind him. He feels her hand on his arm and turns.

Tall and draped in white, she is framed by the colored lights behind her, the guardian spirit of an enchanted cave. Slowly she brings her hands together in a wai, raises them to her forehead, and says, “Hello, Father. Hello, sister. Welcome home.”

And steps aside, her head slightly bowed, her hands still high. Frank glances quickly at Poke, licks his lips, and says, “Thank you, Rose.” Without looking up, Ming Li tugs at the fabric of his sleeve, and Frank says, “Hello, son.”

“Dad,” Poke says, the word enormous in his throat. “Ming Li. Please come in.”

As they come through the door, Ming Li gives him a smile that almost blinds him.