Things were always occurring suddenly and decisively inside the TV Another building, for example, was just getting sheared off as we watched, from an even taller one standing next to it. Why is everyone always so mad at me? Melinda said.

  I’m not mad at you, I said. Are you mad at Melinda? I asked Bill and Peggy Of course not, Peggy said. You are, too, Melinda said. We are not angry with you, Peggy said. And I’ve told you repeatedly that when you pay for the paint job, you can put tape wherever you like.

  I was doing it for you! Melinda said. I was just doing it for you! She turned to me. It said to do it, she said. It said to get tape and put plastic over the windows because of the poison, and my sitter was up in my room with her boyfriend so I got the tape from the drawer and some garbage bags, and then Stacy was mad at me, too, even though I didn’t tell that she and Brett were upstairs having—

  I don’t want you talking like that, Peggy said. About Stacy or anyone else, young lady. Girls in real life don’t behave like television floozies. I’m limiting your viewing time.

  What did I say, what did I say? Melinda said and lapsed into loud, tearing wails that sounded like she was ripping up a piece of rotting fabric. Stop it, Melinda! Peggy said. Stop that right this instant—You’re getting hysterical!

  She’s so theatrical, Peggy said to me, rolling her eyes. She put her arms around Melinda, who continued crying loudly. There’s no reason to get so excited, Melinda, she said, you’re just overtired.

  Soldiers were marching across the screen again. Peggy was gazing at them absently, her chin resting on Melinda’s soft hair. Was Melinda going to be a numbskull like her parents? I wondered, but then I reminded myself how much stress Peggy and Bill were under, worrying about Nana all the time, and whatever. Peggy was looking so tired and sad, just gazing droopily at the screen. She sighed. I sighed. She sighed. Do you remember when people could have veal chops whenever they wanted? she said. Bill had a yen for veal chops yesterday, so I went to the market and I practically had to take out a mortgage.

  Are we poor? Melinda said, and hiccuped. Ask your mother, Bill said, looking like Dad again. Peggy glared at him.

  I was trying to remember what Nana wrote in her little book on currency … fixed, floating, imports, exports, economies … And then I tried to remember what exactly had happened in the last wars we’d fought, or anyhow, in the last vaguely recent ones—just who exactly was involved, and so on. So many facts! So much new information always coming out about these things, after they’ve occurred. It’s pretty hard to keep straight just what’s been destroyed where and how many were killed. Well, I guess it’s not that hard for the people who live in those places. And Jeff always has a pretty solid grasp on that stuff, and Nana sure used to … I wondered what she thought she was looking at now, if she thought she was actually seeing back, seeing pictures from her own life—memories, the inside of her own head … She seemed to be focusing on the screen so intently, as if she were concentrating on some taxing labor. Really working out what that screen was showing. Well, that was Nana! Always work work work work work. There was the sheared-off building, and the tall one still standing right next to it. I wondered what that tall building was, and I wondered what she thought it was. It looked like an office building, with black windows. Maybe Nana thought Death’s office was there, behind those black windows. Maybe she pictured Death as a handsome old man in uniform, sitting at his desk and going over his charts and graphs. Behind him she’d be seeing a huge map with pins in it and his generals, with those familiar, familiar faces. He’d look tired—so much to do!—and sad. He wouldn’t notice the glass tear leaking from his glass eye.

  Guess we’ll all be going together one of these days, Bill said. Swell, I said.You know, guys, I’m really tired. I’m going to go back downtown to Juliette’s. We can talk over everything tomorrow, okay?

  Do you have enough money for a taxi, Lulu? Bill said.

  Do I have enough money for a taxi? Of course I have enough money for a taxi, I said. I was wishing I hadn’t spent most of my last check before Jeff’s funding was cut on those white Courrèges go-go boots. But discounts are about the only perk of my job, and I do have to say that the boots look pretty fabulous. Anyhow, I said, I’m going to take the subway.

  The subway! Peggy said. Don’t be insane, Lulu.

  Don’t die, Aunt Lulu! Melinda said.

  For pity’s sake, Melinda, Peggy said. No one’s going to die.

  Was I ever hoping that Wendell had finished trying to tenderize Juliette and I could just flop down on her futon! No rest for the wicked, Dad used to say, chortling, as he’d head out for a night on the town. (Or for the saintly, is what Jeff has to say about that, or for the morally indecipherable.)

  Oh, look-Peggy said, pointing to the screen, where a grinning person in a white coat was standing near some glass beakers and holding what looked like a little spool—I think they must be talking about that new thread!

  What new thread, what new thread? Melinda said.

  That new thread, Peggy said. I read an article about this new thread that’s electronic. Electronic? I think that’s right. Anyhow, they’ve figured out how to make some kind of thread that’s able to sense your skin temperature and chemical changes and things. And they’re going to be able to make clothes that can monitor your body for trouble, so that if you have conditions, like diabetes, I think, or some kind of dangerous conditions, your clothes will be able to register what’s going on and protect you.

  That’s great, huh, Granana, Melinda said. She threw her little arms around Nana, who closed her eyes as if she were finally taking a break.

  THE FLAW IN THE DESIGN

  I float back in.

  The wall brightens, dims, brightens faintly again—a calm pulse, which mine calms to match, of the pale sun’s beating heart. Outside, the sky is on the move—windswept and pearly—spring is coming from a distance. In its path, scraps of city sounds waft up and away like pages torn out of a notebook. Feather pillows, deep carpet, the mirror a lake of pure light—no imprints, no traces; the room remembers no one but us. “Do we have to be careful about the time?” he says.

  The voice is exceptional, rich and graceful. I turn my head to look at him. Intent, reflective, he traces my brows with his finger, and then my mouth, as if I were a photograph he’s come across, mysteriously labeled in his own handwriting.

  I reach for my watch from the bedside table and consider the dial—its rectitude, its innocence—then I understand the position of the hands and that, yes, rush-hour traffic will already have begun.

  I pull into the driveway and turn off the ignition. Evening is descending, but inside no lights are on. The house looks unfamiliar.

  It looks to me much the way it did when I saw it for the first time, years ago, before it was ours, when it was just a house the Realtor brought us to look at, all angles and sweep—flashy, and rather stark. John took to it immediately—I saw the quick alliance, his satisfaction as he ran his hand across the granite and steel. I remember, now, my faint embarrassment; I’d been taken by surprise to discover that this was what he wanted, that this was something he must have more or less been longing for.

  I can just make out the shadowy figure upstairs in our bedroom. I allow myself to sit for a minute or so, then I get out of the car and close the door softly behind me.

  John is at the roll-top desk, going over some papers. He might have heard me pull into the drive, or he might not have. He doesn’t turn as I pause in the bedroom doorway, but he glances up when I approach to kiss him lightly on the temple. His tie is loosened; he’s still in his suit. The heavy crystal tumbler is nearly full.

  I turn on the desk light. “How can you see what you’re doing?” I say.

  I rest my hand on his shoulder and he reaches up to pat it. “Hello, sweetheart,” he says. He pats my hand again, terminating, and I withdraw it. “Absolutely drowning in this stuff …” He rubs the bridge of his nose under his glasses frames, then directs a muzzy smile my way.

  “Wouldn’t it be wonderful to live in a tree,” I say. “In a cave, with no receipts, no bills, no records—just no paper at all …” I close my eyes for a moment. Good. Eclipsed—the day has sealed up behind me. “Oh, darling—did you happen to feed Pod?”

  John blinks. “No one told me.”

  “It’s all right. I didn’t expect to be so late. Maybe Oliver thought to.”

  Gingerly, I stroke back John’s thin, pale hair. He waits rigidly. “Any news?” I ask.

  “News,” he says. “Nothing to speak of, really.” He turns back to the desk.

  “John?” I say.

  “Hello, darling,” he says.

  “Lamb chops,” Oliver observes pleasantly.

  “I’m sorry, sweetie,” I say. “I’m sure there’s a plain pizza in the freezer, and there’s some of that spinach thing left. If I had thought you’d be home tonight, I would have made something else.”

  “Don’t I always come home, Mom?”

  “‘Always’?” I smile at him. “I assumed you’d be at Katie’s again tonight.”

  “But don’t I always actually come home? Don’t I always come home eventually, Mom, to you?”

  He seems to want me to laugh, or to pretend to, and I do. I can’t ever disguise the pleasure I take in looking at him. How did John and I ever make this particular child, I always wonder. He looks absolutely nothing like either of us, with his black eyes and wild, black hair—though he does bear some resemblance to the huge oil portrait of John’s grandfather that his parents have in their hallway. John’s father once joked to me, are you sure you’re the mother? I remember the look on John’s face then—his look of reckoning, the pure coldness, as if he were calculating his disdain for his father in orderly columns. John’s father noted that look, too—with a sort of gratification, I thought—then turned to me and winked.

  “You’re seriously not going to have any of these?” John says.

  Oliver looks at the platter.

  This only started recently, after Oliver went off to school. “You don’t have to, darling,” I say.

  “You don’t know what you’re missing,” John says.

  “Hats off, Dad.” Oliver nods earnestly at his father. “Philosophically watertight.”

  Recently, John has developed an absent little laugh to carry him past these moments with Oliver, and it does seem to me healthier, better for both of them, if John at least appears to rise above provocation.

  “But don’t think I’m not grateful, Mom, Dad, for the fact that we can have this beautiful dinner, in our beautiful, architecturally unimpeachable open-plan … area. And actually, Dad, I want to say how grateful I am to you in general. Don’t think, just because I express myself awkwardly and my vocabulary’s kind of fucked up—”

  John inclines his head, with the faint, sardonic smile of expectations met.

  “—Sorry, Dad. That I’m not grateful every single day for how we’re able to preside as a family over the things of this world, and that owing to the fantastic education you’ve secured for me, I’ll eventually be able—I mean of course with plenty of initiative and hard work or maybe with a phone call to someone from you—to follow in your footsteps and assume my rightful place on the planet, receiving beautiful Mother Earth’s bounty—her crops, her oil, her precious metals and diamonds, and to cast my long, dark shadow over—”

  “Darling,” I say. “All right. And when you’re at home, you’re expected to feed Pod. We’ve talked about this.”

  Oliver clasps my wrist. “Wow, Mom, don’t you find it poignant, come to think of it? I really think there’s a poignancy here in this divergence of paths. Your successful son, home for a flying visit from his glamorous institution of higher education, and Pod, the companion of your son’s youth, who stayed on and turned into a dog?”

  “That’s why you might try to remember to feed him,” I say.

  Oliver flashes me a smile, then ruffles grateful Pod’s fur. “Poor old Pod,” he says, “hasn’t anyone fed you since I went away?”

  “Not when you’re handling food, please, Oliver,” John says.

  “Sorry, Dad,” Oliver says, holding up his hands like an apprehended robber. “Sorry, Mom, sorry, Pod.”

  And there’s the radiant smile again. It’s no wonder that the girls are crazy about Oliver. His phone rings day and night. There are always a few racy, high-tech types running after him, as well as the attractive, well-groomed girls, so prevalent around here, who absolutely shine with poise and self-confidence—perfect girls, who are sure of their value. And yet the girls he prefers always seem to be in a bit of disarray. Sensitive, I once commented to John. “Grubby,” he said.

  “Don’t you want the pizza?” I say. “I checked the label scrupulously—I promise.”

  “Thanks, Mom. I’m just not really hungry, though.”

  “I wish you would eat something,” I can’t help saying.

  “Oh—but listen, you guys!” Oliver says. “Isn’t it sad about Uncle Bob?”

  “Who?” John says. He gets up to pour himself another bourbon.

  “Uncle Bob? Bob? Uncle Bob, your old friend Bob Alpers?”

  “Wouldn’t you rather have a glass of wine, darling?” I ask.

  “No,” John says.

  “Was Alpers testifying today?” I ask John. “I didn’t realize. Did you happen to catch any of it?”

  John shrugs. “A bit. All very tedious. When did this or that memo come to his attention, was it before or after such and such a meeting, and so on.”

  “Poor Bob,” I say. “Who can remember that sort of thing?”

  “Who indeed,” John says.

  “We used to see so much of Uncle Bob and Aunt Caroline,” Oliver says.

  “That’s life,” John says. “Things change.”

  “That’s a wise way to look at things, Dad.” Oliver nods seriously. “It’s, really, I mean … wise.”

  “I’m astonished that you remember Bob Alpers,” I say. “It’s been a long time since he and your father worked together. It’s been years.”

  “We never did work together,” John says. “Strictly speaking.”

  Oliver turns to me. “That was back when Uncle Bob was in the whatsis, Mom, right? The private sector? And Dad used to consult?”

  John’s gaze fixes on the table as if he were just daring it to rise.

  “But I guess you still do that, don’t you, Dad—don’t you still consult?”

  “As you know. I consult. People who know something about something ‘consult,’ if you will. People hire people who know things about things. What are we saying here?”

  “I’m just saying, poor Uncle Bob—”

  “Where did this ‘uncle’ business come from?” John says.

  “Let me give you some salad at least, darling. You’ll eat some salad, won’t you?” I put a healthy amount on Oliver’s plate for him.

  “I mean, picture the future, the near, desolate future,” Oliver says. He shakes his head and trails off, then reaches over, sticks a finger absently right into a trickle of blood on the platter, and resumes. “There’s Uncle Bob, wandering around in the night and fog, friendless and alone …”

  John’s expression freezes resolutely over as Oliver walks his fingers across the platter, leaving a bloody track.

  “A pariah among all his former friends,” Oliver continues, getting up to wash his hands. “Doors slam in his face, the faithless sycophants flee … How is poor Uncle Bob supposed to live? He can’t get a job, he can’t get a job bussing tables! And all just because of these … phony allegations.” John and I reflexively look over at one another, but our glances bounce apart. “I mean, wow, Dad, you must know what it’s like out there! You must be keeping up with the unemployment stats! It’s fierce. Of course I’ll be fine, owing to my outrageous abundance of natural merit or possibly to the general, um, esteem, Dad, in which you’re held, but gee whiz, I mean, some of my ridiculous friends are worried to the point of throwing really up about what they’re all going to do when they graduate, and yet their problems pale in comparison to Uncle Bob’s.”

  “Was there some dramatic episode I missed today?” I say.

  “Nothing,” John says. “Nothing at all. Just nonsense.”

  “I just don’t see that Bob could have been expected to foresee the problems,” I say.

  “Well, that’s the reasonable view,” John says. “But some of the regulations are pretty arcane, and if people are out to get you, they can make fairly routine practices look very bad.”

  “Oh, dear,” I say. “What Caroline must be going through!”

  “There’s no way this will stick,” John says. “It’s just grandstanding.”

  “Gosh, Dad, that’s great. Because I was somehow under the impression, from the—I mean, due to the—That is, because of the—”

  “Out with it, Oliver,” John says. “We’re all just people, here.”

  “—the evidence, I guess is what I mean, Dad, that Bob knew what that land was being used for. But I guess it was all, just, what did you call that, Dad? ‘Standard practice,’ right?”

  John looks at him. “What I said was—”

  “Oops, right, you said ‘routine practices,’ didn’t you. Sorry, that’s different! And anyhow, you’re right. How on earth could poor Bob have guessed that those silly peasants would make such a fuss, when KGS put the land to such better use than they ever had? Beans? I mean, please. Or that KGS would be so sensitive about their lousy, peasant sportsmanship and maybe overreact a bit? You know what? We should console Uncle Bob in his travails, open up our family to receive him in the warmth of our love, let him know that we feel his pain. Would Uncle Bob ever hurt a fly? He would not! Things just have a way of happening, don’t they! And I think we should invite Uncle Bob over, for one last piece of serious meat, before he gets hauled off to the slammer.”