The Privileges_ A Novel Part 5

"Maybe we should live somewhere else. Maybe we should be living a different kind of life. Who says it has to be this way? You think this is the best life we could be living? There's so little s.p.a.ce here. There's so little room to move. It should feel safe but it just feels exposed. There's got to be somewhere else for us to go."

He was nervous about touching her all of a sudden. "I thought you said you wanted to stay here, though," he said tentatively.

She shook her head, wiping her eyes. "Don't you get it?" she said. "This is the only thing there is for me to be good at. And I suck at it. In fact I'm terrified I'm getting worse at it instead of better."

"Cyn, it was one bad hour out of their lives. You seriously think, as good as our lives are, that that's what they're going to remember?"

"Don't be an idiot," she said. "You think you're born knowing how to forget s.h.i.+t like that?"

Each December Sanford took them out to lunch one by one and gave them their bonus checks, along with a kind of performance review, known among the staff as the State of the Career Address, that helped explain the amount. The business itself was his whim, and while they all knew that it had been a profitable year, there was no expectation that the relative size of the bonuses reflected anything more precise than Sanford's own fondness for them.

They were good enough friends to joke about their fear. The whole operation was so mercurial that it wouldn't have been outside the realm of possibility for one of them to be fired at his or her bonus lunch, or for all of them to be handed a severance check and told that Sanford had decided to shut the place down. Adam, whose lunch was scheduled for the Friday before Christmas, was on a roll. He'd put together the first round of financing for a generic-drug start-up that was poised to get huge in a way few people other than Adam had foreseen; and he'd set up a friendly takeover of Wisconsin Cryogenics, friendly enough to keep the volatile Guy from Milwaukee in teenagers and blow for the rest of his life. The hardest part about putting that together was getting Guy to keep his mouth shut about it, so the stock wouldn't overreact and screw the deal.

Sanford took Adam to Bouley, where they split two bottles of wine before the boss produced a check in a gla.s.sine envelope. "Open it," he said immodestly, as if there were a ring inside.

Adam opened it and saw it was for three hundred and fifty thousand dollars. It was much more than he was expecting, or had received in previous years, and he'd heard enough to know that none of his colleagues had gotten anything close to it.

"This is between you and me," Sanford said unnecessarily. In his old age he cried more easily. "This is not about the past year. This is about the future. I need to make sure you aren't going anywhere. I need to be sure you know how you're valued. I'm getting to the point where I need to think about the legacy that I leave in this world."

Like a lot of his peers, Sanford maintained his social profile through lavish entertainments tied to charities; it wasn't long after bonus season, when presumably they were all feeling flush, that his employees were dunned to buy tickets to that spring's annual benefit for an organization close to his heart, the Boys and Girls Clubs of New York, to be held on the deck of the Intrepid Intrepid, the decommissioned aircraft carrier that served as a floating naval museum at one of the Hudson River piers. A thousand dollars a head. For those who worked at Perini it was not an invitation there was any question of refusing. Adam bought a ticket for Cynthia as well. Normally he wouldn't have forced her hand like that, but he needed to see a little of the old Cynthia, radiant at a party, for her sake but also for his own. She was so down these days, and though for the life of him he couldn't see what there was to be down about, he was so used to being grounded by her that he had a real fear that, wherever she was drifting, he'd end up drifting right out there along with her. He couldn't figure out what to try other than maybe to reenact an evening when she was happier.

It wasn't much of a plan, but for that night, at least, it seemed to work. Cynthia was beaming as she s.h.i.+vered in a black dress in the hangarlike s.p.a.ce below the deck of the s.h.i.+p, drinking some kind of themed martini, the center of attention among Adam's colleagues from Perini, none of whom had sprung for the extra grand for a date. They took turns asking her to dance. He could see how smitten they were with her, with the idea of her, proof of life after marriage. Even when they got a little drunk and their gaze became a little more direct, it did not occur to him to feel jealous, because she deserved their attention. They ate rack of lamb. They saw Tiki Barber. Sanford and his wife came magnanimously by their table, everyone happily drunk.

"One of these things is not like the other," Sanford said, smiling rakishly at Cynthia. "What are you doing at this table full of empty tuxedos?" He held out his hand to her, and when she held out hers, he kissed it. Victoria smiled into the middle distance.

"So nice to see you again, Barry," Cynthia said.

"Please. The pleasure is all mine. You are the absolute jewel of this sorry gathering. Let me ask you something. Do you dance?"

"Not really."

"Splendid. Son," he said to Adam, "you don't mind if I make off with your wife for a while, do you? Adam may not have told you this but I am a dance instructor par excellence. Among my many talents." He held out his elbow; Cynthia, with a mock-frightened glance at her husband, put down her martini and glided off on Sanford's arm toward the dance floor. Victoria saw a friend a few tables away, or pretended to, and she waved and chirped and left the table without a word.

"Unbelievable," Parker said, not without a little envy in his voice. "f.u.c.king old goat. And with his wife right there too. Amazing what that guy gets away with."

Parker's bonus, Adam knew, was so insultingly small that he had skipped right over resentment and moved straight to terror. He emptied another martini, and beckoned to the waitress with the empty gla.s.s. "There's no buzz," he said to Adam, "like that good-cause buzz."

"True dat," Adam said. In fact, though, the drunker he got, the more restless and vaguely surly he began to feel, which was unusual for him. He could feel himself smiling, so he stopped. There was a bar up on deck as well, and he headed outside to visit it, just to get away from the table for a few minutes. On the stairs he turned and was able to pick out his boss and his wife on the crowded dance floor. It was a field of tuxedos but his eyes were drawn right to them. He watched Sanford turn her around and around in that small s.p.a.ce; he said something that made her laugh. It made Adam nostalgic. All the energy and heedlessness and faith in herself that he had always adored had lost its outlet and so that faith had backed up, as it were, into the lives of the children. What was worst was that the life of maximized potential they had always believed in for themselves was still right there in front of them, closer than ever really, but she had stopped looking forward to it, she wouldn't even lift her head to see it. When he told her about the bonus, she had mustered a polite smile and whistled, like, How nice for you. It was both thrilling and a little sad to see her out there dancing like her old self, drunk and luminous, because it took a crazy setting like this, a fantasy almost, to bring it out of her again. Maybe life needed to better resemble the fantasy. Not that there was some thousand-dollar gala to go to every night. But whatever it was that had to be done, it was his turn to bail her out; she'd bailed him out in more ways than he could count. He couldn't picture what he might have become without her.

He knew his boss well enough to have no doubt that seducing Cynthia was the one and only thing on his mind right now. It didn't bother him. Not just because he knew it would never happen: it was right, somehow, that that was what Sanford should try to do, regardless of the fact that his wife was standing right there, or his love for Adam, or the presence of hundreds of onlookers. That was the point of a life like Sanford's. You pursued what you wanted.

Up on the deck there was some kind of disturbance in the line for drinks: a frat-boy type in front of Adam was complaining to his friends that the kid at the front of the line, who looked about nineteen years old, was chatting up the bartender. "Mack on your own time, Junior," he said. "Some of us are thirsty here."

The kid turned around. He had a huge nose, one of those noses that starts practically on the forehead, but on him it looked sort of Roman and oddly handsome. "Take it easy there, Bluto," he said, and Adam's eyes widened gleefully at the audacity of it. "She's my sister."

"What?" Bluto said.

"I'm not s.h.i.+tting you," the kid said. "I think we're twins." Though he had his drink in hand, he turned back and started murmuring to the bartender again.

Another Wall Street tyke, Adam thought, another kid blowing his bonus money on a party where he thinks he'll network with people who don't even know he's alive. The whole bonus thing got to him, actually, in a way it hadn't before. He'd been given a big bonus this year. What did that even mean? Maybe he should buy himself a sailboat, or find more expensive hotels to stay in during the few weeks a year he was allowed to travel where he wanted instead of Charlotte or Omaha, or see if he could find an even more overpriced school to send his kids to? He felt like a sap. Everybody acted like the amount mattered, when what mattered was the notion of getting a bonus at all, of being outside that small circle wherein it was decided how much a man's work was worth, how close you had come to some goal somebody else had set for you. Sanford could have given him two million and the principle would still be the same. Meanwhile time was going by, and the life around you started to calcify while the Barry Sanfords of the world paid you to wait to be told what would happen next.

His relations.h.i.+p to drinking had grown complicated. The more he felt he wanted one, the more he tried not to have it: it was a self-control exercise, of course, but also he was working out more and more lately, and drinking and especially hangovers were incommensurate with the plan to get into perfect shape. He weighed less and could lift more now than ten years ago. One day off from his routine, though, and he could feel the backslide beginning. Even now, standing in the bar line in a tuxedo, he had a restless urge to descend through the loud metal innards of this impotent s.h.i.+p and, once out on the thin path that ran between the Hudson and the West Side Highway, go for a run.

When Bluto got to the front of the line, he pushed the kid aside-just a nudge, really, but the kid was so much smaller that he stumbled and lost about half his drink on the floor. He put the gla.s.s down on the bar and for a moment Adam thought the kid was drunk enough to do something seriously stupid. Instead, though, he stuck out his hand. "No hard feelings, bro," he said to Bluto, and when Bluto scowled and shook his hand, the kid reached up with his other hand and clapped Bluto on the shoulder. Then he wandered off, not toward the tables but in the direction of the moribund planes, some of them spotlit, welded onto the deck as exhibits. Adam continued to stare after him, not so much intently as distractedly, and then suddenly the kid turned around and caught him at it. A few strange seconds pa.s.sed, strange in that it seemed less awkward than it probably should have. The kid raised his eyebrows, and then-Adam was absolutely sure of it-as he started to walk away again he held up his right hand, opened it up by raising his fingers as one might open up a book of matches, and there, facing out from his palm, looped around a couple of his fingers, was a wrist.w.a.tch.

No way. Bluto turned away from the bar again to head back into the crowd, holding three beers by their necks in one hand. "Have a good night, G," he said to Adam.

"You too. Hey, do you have the time?"

Bluto shook his thick wrist out of his sleeve and held it up in front of his face. It was bare. "Holy f.u.c.k," he said.

Adam left him there pus.h.i.+ng everyone backward while he searched the deck for his expensive watch. He got about halfway back to his own table before he stopped. It took a second in that sea of tuxes but he could pick out his colleagues sitting at the Perini table with their heads close together, probably in some timid b.i.t.c.h-fest about something. They didn't see him. Cynthia must still have been dancing. Adam turned around and walked back into the darkness punctuated by the hulks of old Mustangs and helicopters and fighter jets. He found his man lighting a cigarette, way up by the bow, looking across the water to New Jersey, as if the boat were on its way there.

He looked a little nervous at Adam's approach. "Cheese it, the cops," he said.

"Why did you show me the watch?" Adam asked him. "How did you know I wasn't some friend of that guy's?"

He shrugged. "He was laughing," he said. "Whereas you looked p.i.s.sed just to be here."

"Where did you learn to do that? What are you, like some child of the streets or something? Did you even pay to get in here?"

Once he realized Adam wasn't there to bust him, the kid relaxed a bit. "Somebody gave me his ticket," he said. "His boss paid for it because he believes in Giving Back. I'd love to tell you some Oliver Twist bulls.h.i.+t but the truth is a whole lot geekier. I used to do magic. Right through high school. I can get wallets too. Want to see?"

"Where do you work?" Say I'm a broker, Adam thought.

"I'm a broker at Merrill Lynch. What about you?"

Adam didn't answer. You could never, ever go back to this moment in time, he was thinking, to this one permutation of the random. It wasn't about fate-fate was bulls.h.i.+t. It was about a moment's potential and what you did with it. Unrealized potential was a tragic thing.

"Do you know how perfect this is?" he said out loud. "There's no connection between us at all. We don't know each other, we don't work together, we didn't go to the same school. I don't even know your name. Your name isn't even on the guest list here."

"Wait," the kid said. "Don't tell me. Strangers on a Train." Strangers on a Train."

"You're not going to give that a.s.shole back his watch, are you?" Adam said.

A little smirk that Adam hadn't even realized was there suddenly faded from the kid's face. The inchoate patter of the bandleader beneath them and the tidal rush of the Hudson below them were like one sound. He looked at Adam and swallowed. "No," he said.

"Why not?"

"Because f.u.c.k him. That's why not."

The adrenaline was pounding through him now. He hadn't felt like this since he proposed. Without turning he gestured over his shoulder toward the party, which they could hear but not see.

"They're all like him," Adam said. "They wear a uniform to make it easier to tell. They give us gifts, like tickets to benefits, to make us forget that life is short. We can't just wait around. We don't have that kind of time."

"We who?" the kid said.

"We happy few," he said. "You and me. It's time to b.u.m-rush the show. It's time to change the terms. It's going to require some bravery on your part."

What was scary was how immediately all this came to him, when he hadn't even really known it was there: an urge for vengeance, sure, but vengeance against what? He used to be a leader. He'd never done what others his age were doing, he was always in too much of a hurry, and yet somehow that hurry, instead of bringing him the life he wanted, had marginalized him. Now all of a sudden the margin seemed like the only place to be. As for the kid, Adam could tell from the look of terror on his face that he was not wrong about him.

"I don't know what you're talking about," the kid said, which was the right thing to say.

"Yes you do," Adam said. "I'm going to tell you something now. You don't need to do anything but hear it. Wisconsin Cryogenics. Can you remember that without writing it down?"

He nodded.

"Now, you can do with that what you will. If you like, it can just be my little gift to you. And that can be the end. But it doesn't have to be the end."

They froze and watched a man and a woman, both holding martini gla.s.ses, stoop to walk under the stilled blades of a helicopter. Drunkenly they climbed inside. Music started up again within the s.h.i.+p.

"Give me a number," Adam said. "Not a work number, or a home number. Maybe like a girlfriend's cell. I'm going to contact you in about three weeks, okay? Three weeks. Then we'll either talk about the future or you can just hang up on me. My name is Adam."

The kid was right with him. He whispered a number, and Adam recited it back. Once he had a number in his head he didn't forget it. "One more thing," Adam said. "Give me the watch."

The kid was confused but handed it over. Adam had a quick look at it: a gold Patek Philippe. He wasn't much into watches himself but he appreciated value. He pursed his lips respectfully, and then he threw it over the side.

Back at the table he found Cynthia sitting with Parker and Brennan and one or two of the others, all of whom were too drunk and needed to go home. Cynthia, still glowing from all the dancing, glared teasingly at him. "Leave a lady hanging, why don't you," she said. "Where've you been, anyway?"

He told her he'd run into some old friends from Morgan. It was the easiest lie he'd ever told. Parker staggered around the table to say goodbye to her; he bent over with drunken gravitas and kissed her hand, and she laughed, and Adam thought how right she was: you couldn't just do nothing. It wasn't enough to trust in your future, you had to seize your future, pull it up out of the stream of time, and in doing so you separated yourself from the legions of pathetic, sullen yes-men who had faith in the world as a patrimony. That kind of meek belief in the ultimate justice of things was not in Adam's makeup. He'd give their children everything too, risk anything for them. He knew what he was risking. But it was all a test of your fitness anyway. The n.o.blest risks were the secret ones. Fortuna favet fortibus Fortuna favet fortibus.

Sanford talked a good game but he wasn't about to give up what was his except maybe in his will, just like all the other bloated old satyrs capering around on this big docked s.h.i.+p. As for Adam, when he was lying speechless in some hospital bed after his third coronary, everybody would think he was thinking about one thing, but he would be thinking about something else.

They finally found a new apartment, on East End, a long way from Dalton but bigger and better in so many other respects-not only would April and Jonas finally have their own rooms, there was a guest room also, and a patio and access to a pool-that even the kids gave in to the idea of uprooting pretty quickly. But the renovations Cynthia wanted took months longer than expected, and in the end they had to knock fifty thousand off the selling price of their own place in return for the buyer's agreement to delay the closing. It was a strange period, with about half their stuff packed away, calling the contractors for updates every afternoon, living like sub-letters in their own home. The kids lost their enthusiasm and started to complain remorsefully about having to move at all. They'd act out, Cynthia would get frustrated with them, and after one particularly trying weekend in this short-tempered limbo, Adam proposed to his wife that they go away somewhere for a few days, just the two of them. Couples they knew did that all the time, but when they stopped to think about it, they hadn't really done it themselves since April was born. He even offered to take Cynthia to Paris; he knew he probably wouldn't enjoy it that much himself, two flights across the Atlantic in three days, but he made the offer just to show her he was serious. Sitting on a beach someplace in the Caribbean was more their style, but in the end it didn't matter because there was no one to leave the kids with for that long. Cynthia couldn't think of anyone she knew or trusted well enough for that. Who, that little Barnard girl they hired, from Minnesota? It was a wonder she could survive a weekend in the city herself. It was true that the two of them didn't have parents who lived nearby, or whom you'd necessarily trust your kids with even if they were nearby. When Adam was a kid, his parents thought nothing of stas.h.i.+ng him and Conrad at some neighbor's place if they had plans, sometimes on the shortest of notice. But when Cyn asked him if he had any bright ideas for April and Jonas, he had to admit that he did not. As a family they were a little more of an island, for better or for worse, than he'd realized.

So they compromised: he got her to agree to spend one night in a hotel with him right there in Manhattan. Gina, the Barnard girl, who despite being in college never seemed to have weekend plans, consented to sleep over at their apartment. They told the kids they were going to Atlantic City, where it was very boring and there was gambling and children were not allowed. Then on Friday afternoon they checked into the Parker Meridien and called room service for oysters and a bottle of Absolut Citron and some ice. Adam had her out of her clothes almost before the waiter had left the room. She couldn't believe how much energy he brought to it. You might have thought he hadn't gotten laid in months, but G.o.d knew that wasn't true. For a couple with two young kids, they were at it pretty often. But she could see, if not quite understand, how badly he needed this particular encounter to be great. When he wasn't bending her legs back over her head, he was pulling her to the side of the bed so that her palms were on the floor. It was like some s.e.xual epic, like it was important that they outf.u.c.k everyone else in the hotel. Two hours later she was very sure that they had. She didn't have to fake it with him, mercifully, but seeing the way he was acting-how much he wanted to please her-she would have faked it for him if she had to.

He took a break and pulled a ten-dollar bottle of water out of the minibar. He drank it in front of the dark window, his chest still heaving; my G.o.d, Cynthia thought, he is so f.u.c.king gorgeous. She rolled over onto her stomach on the oversize bed. It was a long way from their wedding night, pa.s.sed out from fatigue in that kitschy little B and B in Pittsburgh; she surprised herself by even remembering it. But when you did remember it you had a hard time not feeling optimistic. Things had been getting better the last few months. Adam was doing really well. He'd started trading on the side, he said, and suddenly there was money for everything. They were going to Vail in February, and to the Caribbean in the spring. The new apartment was going to be amazing. Sanford's wife had asked her to join the Coalition for Public Schools. That had to be Adam's doing too, of course. And what he kept telling her all these months was absolutely right: you just needed to get out into the world a little more. She felt his fingers on her calf and turned around to see him smiling sweetly at her. "Okay, shorty," he said. "Break time's over."

He kept telling her how much he loved her, and she would turn her face away when he said it for fear she would start crying. He came again and went directly to the bathroom: "Just checking for a defibrillator," he said. The door closed. Cynthia lay staring at the ceiling; after a minute she rolled to the edge of the bed and walked somewhat stiffly to the chair by the window where she'd dropped her bag. The room was huge, with a stunning view from the foot of Central Park. Cynthia thought she might even be able to see their apartment from there, but they weren't quite high up enough. No voice mail on her phone, but in her bag she found three tightly folded pieces of lined paper-notes to her that Jonas must have slipped in there just before they left the apartment. The first two said "Love U" and "Miss U," and the third one said, "R U winning?"

She was still looking at them when Adam came up behind her. She was worried he'd be angry at her, but of course he wasn't. He was perfect. "Maybe," he said, and kissed her neck, "we should just head home."

They called Gina from the sidewalk outside the hotel so she wouldn't panic when she heard their key in the door. Adam took her downstairs to put her in a cab; Cynthia slipped off her shoes and went into the kids' bedroom. Jonas was sleeping on his stomach as he always did, the covers kicked off, one palm flat against the mattress as if it were a pane of gla.s.s. She sat on the floor, against the wall across from his bed. In the dark the room was a comforting weave of long shadows, from the dresser, from the window frame, from the rolling backpack full of April's schoolbooks that sat beside the door. She held her breath for a moment until she made out their own.

It made sense, she supposed, that the kids were a little nervous about moving into a new place, and a little nostalgic too. Everything that had ever happened to them had happened here. But she was flat faking it when she pretended to share their feelings about saying goodbye to this apartment. She never thought this was going to be their last home. To tell the truth she didn't think the next one would be their last either. It was a vaguely shameful thing to admit. But there was always that moment when you fell out of love with a place, when you looked it over and asked yourself if it was so unimprovable that you wouldn't mind if you died there. Once that thought lodged itself in your head, forget it, it was over.

Not the kind of reasoning you could share with kids that age, obviously. Jonas had already gone through a brief obsession with death, when he was just three. Cynthia was never sure what triggered it-probably some story she'd read to him, though she couldn't think which one-but one day he was just aware of death, and he had trouble grasping some of its basic tenets. To him it amounted to being paralyzed, eyes open, inside a coffin, forever. The absence of consciousness was literally unimaginable. He believed the dead could still see, for instance-it was just too dark for them to see anything. Distinctions like that were not anything Cynthia wanted to get into with him.

She tried what she could think of. She had him pull out his toy cash register. "How many days until your birthday?" she said.

"Fifty-six," Jonas said, who knew this because he asked about it every day.

"And is that a little or a lot?"

"A lot lot !" !"

She thought a moment, then punched some figures into the beeping cash register. "This is how many days until you're Grandma Morey's age," she said. "And even Grandma isn't dying anytime soon." Her own mother was older than Adam's, but she didn't use Grandma Ruth as an example because Jonas hadn't seen her in so long Cynthia thought she might not seem sufficiently real. She turned the numbers toward him.

"Wow!" he said. But she should have known that wouldn't work: at that age, any number over one hundred was the same in his mind, and anyway to tell a child that he shouldn't be afraid of something yet yet was no kind of advice at all. was no kind of advice at all.

"It's all a part of nature," she said another time. "Every living thing is born, and grows, and dies. Every single animal and plant and bird and flower and tree. It's what's called," she said, hating herself, "the circle of life."

"So you'll die? And Daddy? And April? When?"

"No," she said, panicking. "Mommy and Daddy are not going to die. You don't even need to worry about that. Just put that thought right out of your head." She pantomimed plucking a bad thought out of her own head and sniffing it and throwing it away, which made him laugh, and then she let him watch TV.

"He'll move on," Adam had said. "He's three. Something else interesting will come along and b.u.mp it right out of his head. I remember going through a phase like that when I was around his age."

"You did? What did your mother tell you?"

He thought. "I have absolutely no memory of it."

"So you recall asking the question. It's just that your mother said nothing worth remembering."

He nodded.

"Well, there you have it," Cynthia said.

Then one day the preschool called; they had her come pick Jonas up early because after snack time he had just started crying. He wouldn't discuss what was bothering him. Probably just tired, the teacher said with that slightly lunatic patience you wanted in a preschool teacher, but all the same maybe she ought to come and get him.

She took him home in a cab, stroking his hair and kissing the top of his head, not asking any questions. She was trying to soothe herself as much as him. Who is this boy? she said to herself. Why is there no one to help me? How am I supposed to know what to do?

When they walked in the front door, she said, "We have to go get April in about an hour. You want a snack and I'll read to you?"

"Mommy?" he said. "I don't want to die because when you're dead you can't talk or get up and I'll miss you."

And here she learned a lesson about desperation and the ways in which a parent could sometimes rely on it. "Come here," she said. He sat on her lap. She told him that he was a big boy and it was time for the truth. The truth was that no one knows what happens after we die, because we can't talk to dead people and dead people can't talk to us. But some people have some ideas about what might happen. Some people believe in an idea called reincarnation, where when one life ends there's a little rest time and then you get to come back and live again; not the same exact life, though, and maybe not even the same kind of life-maybe you came back as an eagle, or a dog. In fact, maybe this life, right now, wasn't even his first one: maybe he'd been a dinosaur, so long ago that he'd forgotten. (She could feel his little arms relaxing.) Another idea, which a whole lot of people believed in, was called heaven. Heaven was a place that depended on your wishes: the place in life when you'd felt safest and happiest and most comfortable, heaven was that place for you all the time, forever.

"A nice warm house," Jonas said, "with you and Daddy."

He left his sister out of it, Cynthia noticed, but she had let that go. It was a little rite of pa.s.sage for her, a confidence builder, a lesson in love's resources even when there was nothing in particular you yourself believed in.

3.

JONAS WOKE UP FIRST-he could tell by listening-with the shutters open facing the sea. No sound but the rain turning to mist on the stones of the patio. It often rained in the first hour of the morning, as if considerately, to get it out of the way early in case the Moreys or the rest of the island's inhabitants might have had anything planned. Not that there was much to plan, even if you were so inclined. Another walk on the beach, maybe, or another ride across the harbor to Scilly Cay to eat a lobster. That was the genius of the place, as far as Jonas was concerned: wasted time. You needed that in order to properly value, and to gauge the insanity of, your regimented life back home, where sometimes that first minute of brain activity after waking generated so much anxiety that you'd have to get out of bed just to stop thinking. Then again, Anguilla itself was starting to feel a bit like home by now. Twice a year-Christmas break and spring break-for four years. That kind of fidelity was unprecedented. His father must have found something he liked here, since it was the only place they'd ever visited that he had expressed any desire to go back to. Maybe when Jonas was his father's age, and someone used the word "home" in his hearing, Anguilla would be one place he'd think of. Probably not, though. They rented the same Greek-style villa here every time, even though his parents surely could have afforded to buy it. At least Jonas thought so. It wasn't always easy to tell what they couldn't afford anymore.

April was in the bedroom right behind his head, with her friend Robin from school, and the very thought of Robin lent Jonas's thoughts an instant and somewhat humiliating focus. He put his ear to the wall even though the two girls would not be awake for a couple of hours. They were sleeping in the same king-size bed, because they liked it that way, and this provoked Jonas in ways he almost resented. His mom had urged him to invite a friend on this trip too, but he didn't really have any friends.h.i.+ps that intense; there were the guys in his band, but frankly they were better off taking a little break from one another. Robin was tall and thin and long-haired, like all of April's nasty school friends really, but she was also on the lacrosse team and knew who Gram Parsons was and turned red when she laughed and was nice to him, and not just when his parents were in the room either. He sublimated a lot of his feelings toward her into a sentimental appreciation of her as a tragic figure, because her own home life was so bad. Her father was a partner at White & Case and they were over-the-top rich-plenty rich enough to take their own family trip to Anguilla for Christmas, or anywhere else in the world, if they could stand being around one another that long-but the mother was bipolar, or so he'd heard his own mother say, and Robin's father either couldn't acknowledge that kind of defect or else just chose not to make the requisite sacrifices to deal with it. Robin had been spending a lot of nights with the Moreys back in New York lately, sometimes on short notice. When she was with them and the phone rang, Jonas had been instructed not to answer it until April or their mom had a chance to screen the incoming number. Robin had an older brother who didn't always come home at night anymore either, though n.o.body knew where he went instead.

The sadness of it all did nothing to diminish his urge to m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e, and this was a perfect opportunity, but then Jonas's eye fell on the Gibson electric guitar he had received two days ago for Christmas, on its stand in the corner of the bedroom. His feelings for it were as pa.s.sionate as for any object he had ever owned. Indian rosewood neck, humbucker pickups: he'd coveted it for so long that he was in the weird position, Christmas-gift-wise, of knowing exactly how much it had cost. His amp was back in New York but the guitar came with a pair of wireless headphones, so he could jam away without bothering anyone else. He got out of bed, put on a t-s.h.i.+rt, and sat on the couch by the gla.s.s doors with the guitar in his lap. The rain was already letting up, and the sky was brightening in great slabs of blue and white. He heard a door open downstairs and footsteps on the patio, but at this hour it could only be Simon laying the table. He decided he'd work on mastering the opening lick from "One Way Out" until his dad appeared on the beach for his morning swim. He clapped the headphones on; an hour later, when he saw Adam winding his way down the whitewashed steps toward the calm ocean below the house, he unplugged and went downstairs to tell Simon what he wanted for breakfast.

Adam walked into the mild surf until the dropoff came, and then he turned and floated, with his toes sticking out of the water, and stared up at the villa. The water on the island's bay end was impossibly warm. A cargo s.h.i.+p was pa.s.sing to the north of him, toward the open Atlantic, and he watched it for a while but there was no way to track its progress. Even the plume of smoke trailing behind it was as still as a painting. He swam back and forth for a while, but when he paused the salt water held him up easily and so he closed his eyes. When he opened them again, female figures were moving back and forth on the patio, and he walked out of the surf, grabbed the towel that Simon had hung on the beach chair for him, and headed back up the stairs.