Put together the present from whatever pieces of the past and the future you happen to have on hand at the moment. Meanwhile, try to reassemble the past from the fleeting fragments of the present moment. A picture always emerges, whether or not you acknowledge it be the right one. To read this tale, you must put the pieces together yourself. Under your hands, several lives will take shape in earnest if sometimes wobbly and unpreposessing assemblages. Some configurations will yield a more comprehensive picture than others, and the apparently perfect match may not be all that it at first seems. Drag a piece into place in the blue story frame below. The whole is buried somewhere in the fragments. Sometimes fitting a piece into place only increases the number of loose pieces. But don’t give up on the picture. Add another fragment to it and see what grows from the connection. The picture awaits. You know the routine. You have put together the story in a manner that precludes further assembly. Be content that the tale ends here, or start over and try to connect these characters and their circumstances in a different way. Hint: You must pick up the scent before you can see the light. You have put together the story. The pieces may still stretch their provocatively tabbed and slotted outer edges toward the unfinished world, as if hoping for one more connection, one more match, one more hooking up with the Big Picture, but any larger solution is now beyond their reach. The Briefcase: When the truth is cast down into the black-and-white pit, when it is pounded paper thin, folded and refolded upon itself, made portable, convenient, briefcase-ready, what does it still have to say to him?]]> The Pink Blouse: Gently used, tastefully fitted, never revealing too much, her life still looks good on her. But can it keep her warm?]]> The Candle: What can they see by the candlelight that no longer burns?]]> The Perfume: The caged scent paces back and forth behind its bars, utters a velvet growl low in its throat, fixes its white-lace gaze on the distance, waiting for the click of the lock that will set it upon its prey.]]> The Box: The lid closes. The hidden places take in their fugitives. Yet he knows that the light of day is relentless.]]> The Vase: Does she know that the cut flower drinks in the sunlight with the desperation of a last thirst?]]> How many pieces of the past’s abstruse puzzles lie scattered unnoticed among the clutter of daily life? How many suggestively ragged edges reach out like tiny hands, unobserved but endlessly patient? Only when a few of them are somehow joined together and a picture starts to emerge, when long-separated gears are meshed and the old story coughs and sputters back to life, only then do they attract any attention. Evelyn Lasserman wasn’t one to dwell on loose ends and missing links. She had little interest in the fragmentary, unfinished images she thought she had left behind. She couldn’t have imagined that any of the missing pieces would one day fall into place with an impact that would echo for years. A couple of days ago, Evelyn couldn’t find her pink silk blouse among the voluminous but orderly contents of her closet. At the time, she didn’t think this incident signified more than perhaps a memory lapse or a moment of uncharacteristic carelessness on her part. She couldn’t recall taking the blouse to the drycleaner. There was no trace of it in the laundry hamper, where it could have ended up by mistake. Now here it was in its usual spot. She wondered for a moment how she could have missed it earlier, then put it on and thought no more about the matter—until much later. She was fond of the top’s luxuriant color and the touch of old-fashioned charm in its design, though she didn’t wear it very often. It was practically identical to a blouse that had been her favorite nearly twenty years ago, during the early years of her marriage. The scooped neck, ruffled sleeves, and gathered waist were distinctively becoming on her in those days, and the color nicely complemented the thick, dark cascade of hair that had flowed down her back. She had loved that blouse so much she simply wore it out. Had she been able to, she would have replaced it, but styles change and it disappeared from the stores. Then the fickle roving of fashion, in its restless pursuit of the new, circled back on itself. There was her blouse once again on the racks. Her face may have aged, and her hair, which she now kept short, may have grayed a little, but as she looked in the mirror, she smiled at how her middle-aged figure still held its own in the blouse. Even though she had borne two children and weathered their passage to adolescence, it didn’t show beneath the clinging fabric. When she purchased this addition to her wardrobe several months ago, her motivation may have been partly sentimental, but the sentiment wasn’t nostalgia. The fondness she felt for the blouse itself didn’t extend to the memories it aroused of her frenetic younger years. The occasional times when she thought back on those days just made her feel tired. She bought the blouse not to help her dwell on where she had been but to commemorate how far she had come since then. She thought of the garment as an old friend who should witness the progress she’d made. Evelyn was glad to be where she was now and took pleasure in what she considered her well-earned, secure little niche in midlife. This isn’t to say that everything had worked out the way she wanted. There were parts of her life that she had hoped would attain in her middle years the soft autumnal luster you might find on well-worn, lovingly handled objects. Yet these parts had simply become rather dull and scratched. She felt this often when she was alone with her husband. He still had affection for her, but now it seemed like something he had to take down from a shelf and open with effort and excessive show. There were other things hidden up there on that shelf of his that she no longer even tried to guess at. Expectations? Resentments? Dirty laundry he was hoping she would wash? Who knew? She pulled on a pair of black slacks, and then, observing her face in the mirror, wondered in a detached sort of way if it was still attractive. Whatever its shortcomings, it was a face kept turned toward the road ahead and the business at hand, and that was the important thing, she told herself. Evelyn wasn’t one to second-guess life. She made the best of what came her way, and since figuring out where it came from usually couldn’t change anything, she rarely expended the effort. After checking her outfit for lint and wrinkles, she left the bedroom with her mind already focused on the day’s agenda. was spending his first year away from home at college, dipping his toes into the exhilaratingly tumultuous current of new freedom. He was fascinated and a little intimidated by the way the possibilities swirled and rippled and dimpled and splashed into a hundred eddies and crosscurrents, dislodging pieces of the familiar geography and depositing them in various unexpected configurations. The shifting, the juxtaposition, the accumulation, it all seemed like a daring experiment in what the world and he himself really were. Every arrangement made sense and none of them did. Routines were uprooted, expectations rechanneled. He discovered Existential Angst in a hallway conversation after Art History. Leftist Idealism during a campus political rally he stumbled upon. Even such weighty Lasserman institutions as dinnertime revealed an unexpected buoyancy upon the ebb and flow of his new circumstances. The hour of 6:00 came and went without the nutritionally regimented accompaniments to parental interviews he’d long been used to. Evening meals arose spontaneously as Coke and pizza or subs with Jamie or Greg or Marian or whoever happened to be heading over to the Student Union Building. There were times—such as the evenings when Rachel took him back to her apartment to explore their mutual attraction—when he felt that anything could happen. Anything at all. Jordan liked his freedom broad but not too deep. He was living on campus, but he was only a two-hour drive from his parents’ suburban-yellow two-story colonial, so he could still drop in whenever he wanted. Since he sometimes missed his painstakingly developed and reassuringly grounded role of eldest son and older brother, this arrangement suited him fine. He just wished his father wouldn’t call it Independence Lite. There was still some tension between Jordan and his folks, mostly left over from those times when the adolescent need for elbow and leg room grew faster than parental tolerance could stretch to accommodate it. He was generally surprised, however, by what congenial, reassuringly normal people his parents turned out to be in the absence of once-entrenched antagonism over household tidiness, late-night social habits, and taste in musical styles and decibel levels. Independence agreed with Jordan. Dorm life didn’t. He liked to think of himself as a typically fun-consuming, easy-going specimen of freshman life, and since high school he’d looked forward to falling in with his own kind once he was on the “outside.” But compared to the others in Hallington Hall, Jordan was a tight-assed recluse. His floor was noisy and overrun with people who thought classes were just a cover for the real college business of drinking heavily and demonstrating how far human behavior could be pushed back down the evolutionary ladder. His roommate was one of these evolutionary revisionists. Jordan needed a place of his own. After several weeks of sporadically taking what time he could away from his school schedule to apartment-hunt, he found a place just off campus that he could move into next semester if all went well. His father had agreed to cosign a lease if Jordan found something, so as soon as he had the papers in hand, Jordan phoned home to ask if he could drop by that evening after classes for his father’s signature. His mother told him Dad would be working late at the office all evening and suggested Jordan drop in on him there. She assured Jordan he’d be there till eight or nine o’clock. Since the office was almost an hour closer than his parents’ home, this suited Jordan fine. Around 6:30, Jordan arrived at his father’s office building, a squat, half-hearted gesture of International-style architecture thrusting itself up from the gray blur of a suburban corporate strip. He entered the lobby and approached the security desk to check in with the guard, a large, genial black man. Jordan said he was there to see his father, Allen Lasserman, who was working late up on the third floor. “Allen Lasserman?” The guard raised his eyebrows, sending wrinkles up his forehead and a good ways onto his bald scalp. “I think Allen’s gone.” “What? Are you sure?” The guard made a little show of deliberating. “Yeah, I remember him saying goodbye to me just after five. I was surprised because usually he stays till at least six. I can phone up to double-check, though.” The guard called Allen’s office and got no answer. “I think Mitch Jennings is still here. He’s up on Three. Let me see if he knows where your father is.” Another call. “No, Mitch says your dad’s gone home. Sorry.” Jordan drove away feeling put out and tired. He still had to study for an exam, so it was too late to drive all the way out to his parents’ place that evening. Since he had only a couple of days to get the rental agreement taken care of, he decided to come back the next afternoon, right after his 2:00 class, when he was sure his father would be there. When he returned the following day, a receptionist took him to his father’s office and told him he could wait there for its occupant, who was expected back soon. Though Jordan professed a distaste for the corporate environment, he took secret pleasure in visiting his father’s workplace. He was always just a little gratified by the deference the smartly attired company drones felt compelled to show toward him, a card-carrying member of the frayed-jeans-and-sneakers faction, simply because he was the son of a department head. As Jordan sauntered around the office looking over the knickknacks on the desk and the shelves, the neat rows of black binders, the matching black leather armchairs, he wore what he fancied was a condescending smile. Nothing could really escape the homogenizing corporate patina that had settled on the room—everything in dark wood-grain and black or looking like it wanted to be. He cultivated a feeling of moral discomfort in this environment, but deep down he couldn’t help wondering if twenty years from now he himself would be spending ten-hour days in a place like this. After all, his father had started out with an MA in comparative literature and modern languages. Jordan had never shared his father’s keen interest in literature when he lived at home, mostly because he was intent on letting his tastes “find their own way.” This meant frequently shooing them off the well-worn family paths, even when they had little actual desire to stumble around in unfamiliar underbrush. Now that a few lit classes had nudged him toward the subject, he had license to indulge what turned out to be a strong congenital appetite for books and language. As a result of his new literary enthusiasms, Jordan had recently come to appreciate his father’s wide-ranging knowledge of the arts. Suddenly, inexplicably the two of them seemed to have a great deal in common. It wasn’t as if Jordan was in any danger of taking his father as a role model. Yet still . . . Jordan sat down in the leather desk chair. Trying to picture himself in his father’s job, he gave a little start when he noticed, as if to corroborate the image, his own soft-sided briefcase sitting against a wall near the desk. He soon remembered that his father owned one exactly like his. Same commodious black textured-leather body, same utility pouch on the side, same padded shoulder strap. Wondering if the cases really were identical in every way, he unzipped the one before him to examine the inside. The contents of the case soon distracted him from his inquiry. He found what looked like—yes, it was a wig of long, luxuriant chestnut hair, with short lengths of string tied around it, probably to keep it from tangling in the case. What the hell? And there was something beneath that. Clothing. A woman’s pink blouse. A skirt. And inside some tissue paper, a necklace and a pair of clip-on earrings. Was this really his father’s briefcase? Yes, the identification tag inside confirmed it. He hurriedly closed the case and pushed it away, not knowing what to make of it. Maybe for some costume party. Was Meade Industries a place that indulged in that sort of thing? Not quite understanding the awkward feeling that teetered briefly inside him, he got up and walked across the room to gaze out the window at the scrawny trees surrounding the parking lot below with token greenery. “Jordan! Well, what a nice surprise,” said Allen Lasserman, walking into the room and obviously doing his best not to sound as harried and tired as he looked. “How is everything?” Jordan was caught a little off guard by the work-worn expression trying to hide behind the cheerful greeting. He wanted to turn his eyes away, as if he’d caught his father stepping from the shower and grasping for a towel. But the embarrassment passed and Jordan went through the usual routine of bringing Allen up to date on the demands of his current course load. After telling him about the new apartment—tiny with a shared bathroom but well maintained, conveniently located, and blessedly quiet—he presented the lease for his father’s John Hancock. “You know,” Jordan said as his father signed, “Mom said you were working late yesterday, so I came by around six thirty, but they said you left at five.” “Oh. I’m sorry.” His father sounded disconcerted. “Heavens, that was a long drive for you for nothing. I was . . . I had to work offsite last night. I had to head over to a client’s to do some . . . to give a presentation. I’m really sorry I missed you.” “Mom says you’ve been working late a lot these days. Things are pretty intense around here right now I guess, huh?” “Yeah, it’s a busy time I’m afraid.” “Working late again tonight?” “Yes. Yes, I’m sorry to say I’ll be stuck here again. Look at this mound of paperwork.” “Well, I’d better let you get back to it, then. Nice seeing you.” Jordan turned in the doorway on his way out. “Oh, and thanks again for the help with the lease.” “No problem. We’ll be seeing you for dinner next week, right?” “Yeah.” As Jordan pulled out of the parking lot, he brooded over his father’s reaction to the news of his after-hours visit. Allen’s embarrassment arose from something more than the inconvenience he’d caused his son, and his explanation didn’t ring true. Trying to stop the scene from looping through his mind, Jordan drove around for awhile until he found a decent-looking burger joint. He had skipped lunch and was pretty hungry. A little before 5:00 he drove back to his father’s office and parked in a spot that gave him a clear view of the building’s entrance. Twenty minutes later he was berating himself for wasting time that he couldn’t really afford to take away from his term papers. Then he spied his father leaving the building, briefcase in hand. He watched Allen get into his car and drive away. After the car had disappeared, Jordan continued to stare uneasily in the direction it had gone. A minute or two later he roused himself and looked around at the passing pedestrians obliviously hunkered down into their own lives, at the rush-hour traffic grinding mechanically in the boulevard. The rows of parked cars in the lot looked as assured and orderly as before. Pulses of wind continued to shape gentle patterns in the foliage bordering the asphalt. There was no external sign that anything had changed. Perhaps he could just ignore the murky, cold current that he now felt washing against him, the current that seemed to finger the loose pieces thoughtfully, turning them around and around as if preparing to slip them into place somewhere that . . . No. Jordan turned the key in the ignition, backed up quickly, and maneuvered his car into the thickening traffic. “Well, this will be such a treat,” said Jordan’s mother, “seeing everybody together again at the dinner table.” Jordan and his younger brother, Peter, were laying plates and silverware on the table, which bore the lace-edged white tablecloth that came out of the cupboard only for special occasions. “Your father should be here any minute. I know you boys hate having dinner so late, but Dad’s been working such long hours it’s hard to get him to the dinner table at all sometimes.” Jordan smiled at his mother. On a normal night around campus, it was often eight or nine o’clock before he remembered to worry about dinner. But both brothers knew how much their mother hated to see the dinner hour, that emissary of stolid domesticity, wander haplessly into the dubious neighborhoods of late evening. The front door opened and in walked Allen. As he greeted everybody and apologized for delaying the meal, his wife approached him with a smile and put her hands on his waist. As if paying the toll to extricate himself from her grasp, he gave her a peck on the cheek and pulled away. “Something smells great, Ev.” “That’s the roast. But what’s that I smell on you?” Evelyn pulled him back to her and moved her nose close to his face. “Is that perfume?” Allen looked surprised. “What? I don’t think so.” “It is. Definitely. In fact, it’s the scent I used to wear. I’d recognize it anywhere.” Evelyn asked teasingly, “What have you been up to, Allen?” During this exchange Jordan stiffened and looked away from his parents. With less success he tried to turn away from the image that loomed up suddenly from the corner of his mind where he had tried to keep it sequestered. Once again he saw his father sneaking away from work with a briefcase full of women’s clothes. “Huh. Well, I don’t know,” was Allen’s only response to his wife’s question. The placid smile on his face didn’t falter. “But let’s eat. I’m famished.” He took his place and they all helped themselves to the rib roast, yams, potatoes, and roasted vegetables. After chewing thoughtfully, Allen said, “You know, we had a little going-away gathering for Helena at work today. It was her last day. Have you ever met Helena, Ev?” His wife shook her head. “Nice woman. But you can smell her coming before you can see her, she wears so much eau de something or other. Anyway, she hugged me a little too enthusiastically when we said goodbye. So I probably smell like her now. I suppose I’ll smell like her for months.” He popped an asparagus spear into his mouth, as if to seal the explanation, which Jordan thought he seemed perhaps a little too pleased with. Evelyn looked at her husband a moment and said with a smile, “Allen, you’d better not have been nuzzling her. Do you remember how you used to nuzzle my neck when I wore perfume? And you’d come away smelling like it?” “Ah, yes, the good old days, when the scent of dawn was still upon our lives.” He said this in an exaggerated, mock-poetic tone, but Jordan thought he detected a hint of genuine wistfulness in his demeanor as his father studied his roasted potatoes and gravy during the brief silence that followed. Throughout dinner, Jordan found his gaze continually coming to rest on his father with an ill-defined feeling of guilt, as if it were a dog crawling up onto the forbidden living room couch. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for now in this man who had been so familiar to him all his life—perhaps some telltale gender-ambivalent mannerism he had never noticed before, perhaps just some clue about what was really going on behind the genial expression. Memories of his father’s quirky sense of humor began to percolate up into Jordan’s head: The fondness for talking figuratively about “padding his bra” or “tightening his girdle.” Jordan hadn’t thought anything of these comments at the time. Then a memory emerged that he hadn’t thought about for a long time. Once when Jordan had complained about being a perfectly mature individual stuck in the body of a 16-year-old high-school sophomore, his father had countered that it was better than being someone stuck in the body of a 47-year-old business executive. When Jordan had asked him who was stuck in that 47-year-old body, he had replied that he wasn’t sure, but he suspected it was a 24-year-old graduate student. Probably a girl with mousy brown hair and glasses. Jordan didn’t want to connect any more links but he couldn’t help himself. He was on his way to learning that a chain built from the fear of enchainment can be stronger than the real thing. The table talk made its way round the usual assortment of topics eventually to arrive at Jordan’s coursework. He was particularly enjoying a class in nineteenth-century drama. They were studying Ibsen at the moment, and Jordan was fascinated but bemused by the extraordinary psychological panoramas revealed in his plays. “All these guys leading these strange secret lives with all this weird stuff going on inside them. They don’t seem like real people. It makes great stories but does stuff like that happen in real life? Dad, do people really have secret lives?” “How would I know?” replied Allen. “They’re secret.” No one said anything for a moment. Then Allen said softly, “Woe to the man who keeps his life secret from himself.” “What do you mean, Dad?” “Oh, I don’t know. I must have read that somewhere. Maybe it was Ibsen.” As George Farlaine sat alone in La Madeleine waiting for his wife, his gaze drifted among the little islands of white table linen with their well-dressed couples murmuring together serenely. The muted overhead lighting and the candles flickering on the tabletops rendered everything in the soft-edged monochrome of an old photograph. Upon each table, like a hand-colored detail, was a daub of crimson: a single rose in a slim vase. He soon had the feeling that nothing existed of the world beyond the borders of this tableau with its perfectly wrought tonal balances and indelible tranquility. Even Time itself seemed to be enjoying some time off, as if it had decided to sit back, order a merlot, and savor the establishment’s premium equanimity, just one more contented patron among sepia and pastel. George let himself float aimlessly upon these agreeable sensations and the warmth of the wine inside him. The most gratifying feeling among those cradling him so tenderly was one of wonder at being here. A pricey meal downtown was a rare treat for George and his wife, Francesca, at any time. But as a commemoration of their tenth anniversary, it became truly remarkable, because for so long this milestone had seemed out of reach. They had paid too little attention to the ruts and potholes that began jolting the conjugal cargo about three or four years into the journey, knocking loose a piece here and a piece there. Suddenly they realized that the entire load was on the verge of collapse. They came to an emergency stop, retraced their route with help of a counselor, and gathered up the fallen bits and pieces where they could. Somehow they managed to get enough of them more or less back in place. It wasn’t the configuration they had started with or the one they really wanted. But it held together. Now here they were. After wandering the room, George’s eyes came to rest on the candle that glowed before him inside a little cylindrical container of clear glass. The perfectly formed bead of flame, so elemental and pure, seemed to draw all the thoughts out of his head and into the tiny fire where they melted away. Then his mind formed an image of dozens of serenely gleaming candles, small white votives sprouting wisps of light, candles perched on tables and chairs, on sofa and carpet and mantle, candles scattered from one end of his living room to the other, candles imbuing every shape and surface with a churchly pallor. This was the scene he encountered one evening years ago upon returning home from a draining business trip, the kind that made him glad he hadn’t climbed the corporate ladder into the frequent-flier set. After looking forward all day to the consolation of some playoff football on TV, he found his way to the set blocked by an indignant Francesca. She informed him that the evening would be devoted to remembrance of Alberto, her brother who had passed away exactly one year earlier to the day. An argument ensued and escalated into a terrible fight, during which George got in some hard shots at “bible-thumping bullshit” and “flaky dimwad superstitions” and Francesca countered with “insensitive infantile jock-wannabe,” “have you ever even noticed you have a wife,” and the always concussive “I should have married someone who cared about me, like Eric.” George stormed out of the house, and Francesca barely spoke to him for days afterward. That was the nadir of the Farlaine relationship, and the turning point. Ultimately, George curtailed his vicarious sports consumption in favor of more-Francesca-friendly activities. Francesca agreed to save God for Sundays. They gradually managed to clean off enough of the other encrusting, distorting irritants and resentments that their lives fit together again in a satisfactory way. So many hours spent scraping and scrubbing their marriage, restoring the terms and gestures of trust, such careful attention to the nooks and crannies where God-knows-what could be hiding, waiting, fearing, needing, such determination, such sore knees and dirty hands. George yanked his thoughts away from these janitorial chronicles and directed them instead to the image fresh in his mind of an alluring Francesca in her pearls and black evening dress, a Francesca smiling in just the right way to make him want her. His musings were cut short when his once-again-wandering gaze happened to catch on his longtime friend and business colleague Allen Lasserman at a table across the room. It was Allen who had recommended La Madeleine. George had come to trust his friend’s judgment in personal as well as business matters, but this wasn’t the only deciding factor in the choice of tonight’s dining spot. There seemed something emblematic of marital longevity in eating at a place favored by a man who had a two-decade-long marriage under his belt. Yet even though George thought of this as Allen’s restaurant, the man himself seemed out of place in this atmospheric vignette so far removed from the austere fluorescence of the office. Consequently George at first doubted it was Allen. Furthermore, the man’s female companion wasn’t Evelyn Lasserman, who George had met several times at office functions. This woman looked about fifteen or twenty years younger than Allen’s wife. Allen’s distinctive gestures—the way he swept his hands through the air when he talked—were unmistakable even from a distance, however, and George could no longer resist the identification. That very image soon materialized before him as Francesca returned from the Ladies’ Room and took her seat. “This place is really wonderful,” she said, leaning over and aiming that smile point-blank at her husband. “Who did you say told you about it?” George smiled back and sat for a moment just savoring his wife’s expressive Italian features and soliciting eyes. Then he replied, “My friend Allen, from work. You’ve met Allen, right?” “Sure. He seems like a pretty interesting guy.” Francesca’s eyes dropped to her menu, and George’s followed suit. As he puzzled out the exotic French names, an image sprang up in his mind of Allen, eyes closed in ecstasy as he enumerated the gastronomic delights of the restaurant’s filet of salmon. It was partly George’s admiration for his colleague’s taste that had led him here. More importantly, however, he felt there was something emblematic of marital longevity in dining at a place favored by a man who had a two-decade-long marriage under his belt.

]]> Soon George was thinking about the unusual way in which his life had intertwined with Allen’s. George had originally been Allen’s boss at a smaller company. After going their separate ways for a few years, they both ended up at Meade Industries, where George found himself working directly under Allen. Though George now no longer reported to Allen, the two of them still worked together frequently. Fortunately, George never resented the way Allen’s career shot past his own. He never used Allen as a yardstick for his own shortcomings. He was simply less ambitious than Allen because he was more content with his lot. because businesspeople never eat here.” George chuckled. “He’s a funny guy,” George continued. “I’ve worked with him for about eight. . . no, nine years. God, has it really been that long?” George paused to reflect. “And you know, as long as I’ve known him, he’s claimed he hates the corporate grind and is going to bail at any moment. But he sticks around and just keeps getting better and better at it.” “Maybe he just likes to be a complainer,” suggested Francesca. “I don’t know. I’m not sure how much of it is just a pose. I remember he once told me that he’d missed his calling, which was to be poor and struggling. He said he always thought he’d end up being a college teacher or a writer—something ‘respectable,’ as he put it. Sometimes he talks about going into arts administration or foundation work, and he sounds serious. He told me he even had a résumé ready. But I know for a fact he’s committed to his job and he’s worked his tail off for those promotions. In fact, I’d say that compared to most people at Meade, he’s downright driven.” “Hmm. That’s saying something for sure, seeing as how hard most of you boys work.” “You know, the other day he said to me something like . . .” George frowned at his silverware, trying to recall the exact words. “ ‘There’s no point putting a foot on the stairs unless you’re going to climb all the way up.’ And yet he makes fun of the corporate climbers, calls them trained monkeys who don’t know anything except which direction is up. Yup, he’s a puzzle.”

]]> “Is that his wife with him?” asked Francesca. “No, I don’t know who that is. I don’t recognize her as someone from Meade. Maybe she’s a client or a vendor.” Then after a moment’s consideration he added, “Though somehow I can’t really see Allen bringing a business associate into his little romantic hideaway.”

]]> The brief silence that ensued drew George’s attention back to the candle glow on the table. He raised his eyes to his wife. “Do you remember that night when you filled the entire living room with votive candles?” Francesca looked up from her wineglass in surprise. Neither of them had mentioned the so-nearly-terminal candle incident for years, as if it had taken up residence in some unsavory quarter of memory beyond the reach of gentrifying forgiveness. They stared at one another for a precarious moment, George with a slight smile wavering on his face. Then Francesca snorted and a dollar’s worth of cabernet sauvignon dribbled from her mouth. She began giggling uncontrollably and George joined in.

]]> When their somewhat-too-voluble mirth had subsided, George looked around sheepishly and noticed that Allen and companion were about to walk past his table on their way to the exit. Allen didn’t see him. George was ready to call out a greeting when he observed that the two had their arms around each other. Allen cocked his head and gave the woman a light kiss on the lips. George picked up his menu and buried his face in it. George halted at the door of Allen’s office when he saw that the occupant was on the phone. He turned to go, but Allen called out, “Hang on, George. I’ll be with you in just a minute.” Giving his colleague a little nod, George walked in and stood near the entrance trying not to look impatient. After a minute or two, when the phone conversation showed no sign of winding down, George began idly examining the curios lining a wall shelf. A corkscrew with a prominent handle of dark, rich-grained wood carved to resemble a cluster of grapes. A white marble or perhaps alabaster candleholder shaped like an upright ear of corn. George knew that this odd assortment of objects had sentimental value for its owner. A brass statuette of a stylized bear awkwardly standing on one leg. A delicate, gracefully contoured bowl of unglazed black pottery. Most of the items were mementos Allen had picked up during the extensive overseas travels of his younger days, when he worked as an “intellectual handyman” at translating, tutoring, or whatever else came his way. There was a story behind each object, though George couldn’t recall all of them. He remembered that the comical-looking bear wasn’t dancing but rather was assuming a fighting posture steeped in heraldic symbolism that related to Allen’s German ancestory. Allen explained that it represented the fierce defense of country and kin, which translated as xenophobia and bigotry in Allen’s book. The perfect symbol for his grandfather, who had violently objected to Allen’s Jewish wife. Allen said that sometimes the value of family tradition was in reminding you who you weren’t rather than who you were. The unadorned black bowl was an authentic product of some other tradition, a much older one kept alive for centuries in only a single town in . . . Spain? Italy? George couldn't quite remember the details. Allen considered it testimony that simple beauty was the most important, because that’s what lasted. It represented unpretentious, unembellished, unglazed honesty, which Allen claimed to regard as the highest virtue. That claim was certainly borne out in his direct and open business dealings , though George had begun to wonder how far that honesty extended to his personal affairs. . On a shelf below the other objects rested the box: a small rectangular container with sides and lid smothered in elaborate inlays of multitoned wood, ivory, and mother-of-pearl. George admired the star-shaped patterns that seemed almost to twinkle and glow as they radiated out from the center of the lid and then gave way to an undulating border design. He marveled at the way the fluid geometric invention became, upon closer inspection, a myriad of tiny, precisely cut squares, triangles, rhombuses, mingled bits of white and iridescence, brown and black. What skill and patience must have gone into taming that swarm of tiny pieces, forcing all those fragments into the service of a unified beauty, hand-gluing them one by one by one into just the right place. Only then, as he gazed down at the photograph inside, did it occur to him with embarrassment that he shouldn’t be snooping around in other people’s belongings. But something about the photo, which appeared discolored from age, made him take a good look at it. The woman in it seemed familiar but he couldn’t quite place her. Then it came to him: the woman from La Madeleine, the one he saw Allen kissing. Same long brown hair and round-rimmed glasses. Same pretty brown eyes. She even wore a blouse of the same vibrant pink. Beside the picture lay an assortment of women’s rings. Only then, as he gazed down at the contents inside, did it occur to him with embarrassment that he shouldn’t be snooping around in other people’s belongings. But the unexpected nature of what he found there gave him a moment’s pause. Nestled carefully in one end of the box was a collection of expensive-looking women’s rings—delicate gold circlets bearing a pearl, a sizable diamond, and gemstones of red, blue, and yellow. In the other end was a photograph of a woman he didn’t recognize. George felt a little shaken. The incident in the restaurant had apparently disturbed him more than he’d realized. He’d tried to dismiss it as being none of his business, but now he couldn’t help wondering how far things had gone between Allen and the young woman in pink. The rings in the box looked expensive. If they were intended as gifts for a lover, they would represent significant tokens of affection. George wondered if Allen knew what he was getting into. From the way Allen talked about Evelyn, George couldn’t imagine that he would ever leave her for a younger woman. From seeing the two of them together it was obvious that they were deeply committed to each other. Wasn’t it? Or was George as blind about this marriage as he had once been about his own? He knew all too well how a few external coats of marital “success” can hide all sorts of dry rot and toxic mold. Allen’s treasure chest had obviously come upon better times, but what was the man doing with a stash of jewelry in his office? George decided he didn’t really want to know. Allen had always been a puzzle to him in some ways, and their long friendship seemed only to deepen the enigmas that occasionally peeked through the surface of his character. Deep down George suspected that Allen himself probably didn’t know how all the pieces went together. George didn’t want to acknowledge that the most stalwart husband and family man he knew had feet of clay. He did acknowledge, though, that Allen had always been a puzzle to him in some ways, and their long friendship seemed only to deepen the enigmas that occasionally peeked through the surface of his character. He had always suspected that Allen himself didn’t really know how all the pieces went together. He just hoped his friend didn’t wake up one day to find he’d been trying to assemble the wrong picture.

]]> “Sorry, George,” said Allen, hanging up the phone. “Are you bringing me the budget projections?” “Sure am.” Evelyn closed the front door on the warm, sunny weather and stood in her front hallway, wearing her new peach dress and feeling discouraged. She had planned to spend the entire afternoon at a friend’s baby shower. After driving all the way across town, she arrived to find that the mother-to-be had been rushed to the hospital with a case of food poisoning. The hospital reported that the patient and her unborn baby would be fine, but the shower had to be postponed. All Evelyn could do was turn around and drive back home. She set her baby gift down on the hall table and let her eyes rest a moment on the decorative wrapping—little storks carrying smiling bundles in an endless procession around the package. It made her sad to think that her own stint at childrearing would be over in just a few years when Peter, her youngest, left home. Somehow she would have to refocus a good part of her life. She had happily anticipated rediscovering some of the excitement of new motherhood that afternoon, if only vicariously. Ah, it’s best not to look back, she told herself. To cheer herself up, she decided she’d cut some roses from the garden. California’s fall bloom cycle was almost over, but a few of the late-bloomers still clung on, carrying the banner of summer into the timidly advancing autumn. They’d look lovely in the Finnish crystal vase that now sat empty on her bedroom dresser, a birthday present from a month ago that would finally be put to good use. She took a pair of scissors from the kitchen drawer and went back outside. She loved her flower garden, which she coddled with careful pruning, feeding, and spraying, even though she hired a service to maintain the rest of the landscaping. The foxgloves, lilies, and delphiniums were delightful, but seeing the roses bud and blossom under her own hands filled her with particular pleasure and pride. Her Bronze Stars and Madonnas were the envy of the neighborhood. At least, so she liked to think. As she selected a presentable quartet of scarlet and apricot blooms and carefully snipped their stalks, she pictured herself as a frail old woman years from now, children in distant cities, husband passed away, yet still lovingly tending to her floral “babies.” The image amused her as she set the flowers on the kitchen counter and started down the hall for the vase. She was a little surprised to find the bedroom door closed, since she always left it open. She got a bigger surprise when she opened the door on a man and woman who stood in the middle of the room absorbed in a raw open-mouthed kiss. At the sound of the door, the man turned toward Evelyn. It was her husband. Evelyn stood speechless as Allen and his younger companion abruptly relinquished their embrace. The other woman’s startled look quickly turned to one of embarrassment. Evelyn’s head began to swim. The initial shock of the situation was compounded by a momentary feeling that she was standing outside her own life and looking in at it from a distance. The woman bore an uncanny resemblance to the Evelyn of two decades ago. She was even wearing—there could be no mistake about it—she had on the pink blouse that had been something of Evelyn’s trademark back then. “I guess I’d better be going,” said the young woman, backing away from Evelyn. She removed her glasses and placed them on the bed, then took off a long, brown wig, which she set beside the glasses. “I’ll just get my clothes.” She disappeared into the bathroom as quickly as she could. She took the heavy glass container from its spot on the mahogany dresser and carried it back to the kitchen. When she emerged from the windowless hallway into the kitchen sunlight, she turned the fine crystal in her hand to admire the intricacies of reflection and refraction wrought by its many delicate facets, losing herself for a moment in a fragile labyrinth of light. After carefully filling the vase half full of water from the tap, she set it on the counter and slipped the roses into its narrow mouth. As she arranged them to her liking, she thought of the way Allen had presented this gift to her. When he joined the rest of the family in the living room to witness the present-opening ritual, he had a garland of daisies entwined in his hair. Since they were all accustomed to his eccentric little gags, no one commented on the ill-affixed floral accoutrements that gradually slipped from his short hair onto his forehead and down the collar of his shirt. They patiently awaited the punch line. In due course Evelyn tore the pink wrapping from his package and brought out the lovely vase. “Whenever this humble vessel is crowned with blossom,” he declaimed, “may it bring to mind your devoted floral-browed admirer.” “Um, Allen, do you mind explaining to me why that woman is wearing my clothes and why you were kissing her?” “I’m really sorry, Evelyn,” was all Allen could manage. He looked at the floor. “I’m really, really sorry.” “Were you going to have sex with her?” Allen kept his eyes on the ground and said nothing. Struggling to contain her anger, she said, “You know, this is a bad time to clam up on me, Allen. You’d better just give me straight answers.” Yes, it made her think of him now, the man who could still make her laugh, even if he could no longer make her feel truly admired and cherished. She stepped back a little from the flowers to better judge the effect of her efforts. One of the blooms was a little withered on one side. She tried to turn the bad side away from view, but the thorns on the stem prevented its rotation. No, there were things you couldn’t always arrange exactly how you wanted them, but you just did the best you could. It will look lovely during dinner tonight, she thought, as she took the vase into the dining room and set it on a coaster in the middle of the table. Allen sat down on the bed, still not looking at his wife. “Evelyn, do you remember when you used to wear your hair like this?” He picked up the wig and stroked it gently. Evelyn just stared at him. “Do you . . . do you remember what we used to be like together back then?” He ventured a look at her, but what he saw in her face frightened him, and he looked away. Without meeting her eyes, he continued slowly, perhaps afraid, too, of his own words. “I know this looks bad. I need to . . . to explain.” He stared at the rug as if sizing up the painful silence he was up against, gathering his courage. Suddenly he looked up and spoke quickly, pleadingly. “Do you remember how we traveled all over Europe back then? We lived in a different city every six months. It seemed . . . I don’t know . . . magical is the only way I can think to describe that time. It seemed like we had the whole world right there laid out at our feet. I knew at the time it couldn’t last forever. But I didn’t expect it to end so abruptly. So completely. I didn’t expect us to become so . . . irreversibly domestic. I thought maybe once the kids were older . . .” Suddenly feeling very tired, Evelyn sat down beside him. She tried to keep her thoughts from spinning uncontrollably in her head. “Allen, I hated all that travel. Don’t you remember how miserable I was by the time we got to Rome? Don’t you remember? The only reason I stayed with you was because you promised we would settle down. I thought you wanted that, too. You said you wanted a real home and a family.” Allen frowned. “Well, I do remember you got sick in Rome. Yes, that’s true.” “I wasn’t sick, Allen, I was depressed.” “But . . . you seemed so happy most of the time back then. You seemed to enjoy everything so much. I remember how I experienced things more deeply, more intensely through your enjoyment and your excitement.” “Sure, I was running on adrenalin for awhile. We were kids. Yeah, it’s fun being a kid when you’re young. That’s what youth is for. But it’s not fun getting older and feeling like you’re going to be stuck in the playground for the rest of your life.” “Evelyn. Tell me something. Are you really happy now? Are you happy like you were during our best times on the road? Remember that little outdoor café in Marseilles where we sat talking till early in the morning? And the proprietor came out and wanted us to leave so he could put the table away, but we pretended we didn’t understand French. So he closed up and left our table out all night. “Maybe you just don’t remember it all, Ev. I was afraid it was starting to fade away for me, too, and I couldn’t bear to let that happen. It seemed like . . . some vital organ inside me was failing. That’s the only reason I did it.” Allen fell silent as the young woman emerged from the bathroom wearing jeans and a white sweatshirt. Evelyn watched the nervous intruder move toward the door and noted that without the distinctive hair and round-rimmed glasses, which drew attention away from the other features, the resemblance to herself was very superficial. Keeping her eyes on Evelyn and giving her rival a wide berth as she crossed the bedroom, the woman accidentally bumped into the mahogany dresser. Her elbow toppled a glass vase onto the floor, where it shattered against the hardwood. It was the vase Evelyn had wanted to fill with roses. The young woman let out a squeal and brought her hands to her face. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said, beginning to sob. She rushed for the door and was gone, leaving husband and wife staring after her. Evelyn recovered first from this tumultuous exit. “You want to know if I’m happy,” she said, rubbing her forehead with her hand. “How can I be happy when my husband is in love with someone else?” “No, that’s not true. That’s not fair. You’re the love of my life.” “Allen, I just saw the woman you’re in love with.” “She means nothing to me, I swear.” Allen became agitated. “She’s just . . . a prop. A rented prop.” “I’m not talking about the tart you brought into my home. Allen, sometimes when you hold me in your arms, I feel like you’re miles away. You haven’t kissed me—the person who I actually am—you haven’t made love to me for years, have you? You’ve been cheating on me with the woman you couldn’t turn me into.” “I love you,” he said in a toneless voice just above a whisper. Allen sat motionless on the bed, staring at the floor, as Evelyn walked into the bathroom. Her clothes and jewelry lay in a heap on the counter between the two sinks. She picked up her pink blouse and smoothed out some of the wrinkles. After holding it up for inspection, she stuffed it into the wastebasket. Then with a folded Kleenex to protect her fingers from the sharp edges, she began picking up the heavy pieces of shattered crystal and depositing them one by one on top of the crumpled garment.