Well, I said.

  Yes, he said.

  Placing the tumbler and pitcher carefully on the bedside table, Mr. Bhuti climbed up onto the bed, then lowered himself onto, and into, my charge.

  Fuck, my charge shouted.

  Sir, my dear sir, the Frenchman cried.

  As quickly as he’d entered, Mr. Bhuti rolled out of my charge and stumbled away from the bed.

  Now he knows, he said. Now he truly knows.

  Disoriented from the transfer, he came directly toward me like a careening drunk.

  And inadvertently passed through me.

  And I knew too.

  The shock of it knocked me down. I struggled to the love seat, pulled myself up beside the (oblivious) wife. I had seen Mr. Bhuti’s village, yes. But had also grasped that it was not exceptional, not at all; the entire region thereabouts frequently burst into flames, and vast tracts of it, once peopled and prosperous, now stood abandoned, marked by black-burned trees and a web of brackish former rivers from which every trace of life had been extinguished.

  And that wasn’t all.

  Mr. Bhuti, a lawyer, had, before a certain financial reversal, traveled widely all around his country, and his region was far from being the only region so damaged; other regions, damaged in different ways, exhibited different symptoms. It was all there in his mind: a beetle-ruined birch grove in Kalimpong, a flooded Haryana valley in which peaked roofs appeared to the eye as thousands of toy boats; here the ocean had risen to the second floor of the Kolkata library, leaving, when it receded, the books on those two floors rank with mold; at Shivrajpur, three dolphins, disoriented by the unusual heat of the ocean, had grounded themselves during a beach wedding, leaving the guests, including Mr. Bhuti and his wife, Charvi, at a loss as to what to do.

  And it wasn’t only in his country.

  It was happening everywhere.

  Mr. Bhuti, that is, seemed to feel that it was happening everywhere.

  I found it hard to accept.

  And yet, per Mr. Bhuti, it was all true. It all seemed, that is, there in his mind, quite real, and he had even begun to take it somewhat for granted and had, as had many others, begun to make accommodation with it.

  Until, that is, it had killed him.

  I’m sorry to have upset you, madam, he said.

  Picking up the tumbler and pitcher, he left.

  Stay out, my charge said. Stay out of me.

  Nevertheless I entered the orb of his thoughts.

  And found that he was not shocked. At all. By any of it. He knew about it, about all of it. Knew the extent of it, was aware of many examples of it, knew he was often called out for some imagined part he’d supposedly played in it, but he—now, hang on a minute—he just had a bit of a quarrel with the damn logic. There’d always been droughts, yes? Were heat waves a new thing in the world? Some other fellow (ghost, ghoul, whatever) might just as easily have shown up here with a headful of grass-covered hillsides, serene mountain lakes, forests not on fire, unflooded towns, completely dry libraries, meadows teeming with life, thousands of non-dolphin-interrupted weddings, a field of, uh, perfectly great wheat or whatever. Yes? Tonight, here in Dallas, did things seem especially apocalyptic? Or was it just a lovely summer evening? With what sounded like a pretty good party going on next door? No great wailing and gnashing of teeth happening over there, far as he could tell, and in fact, wait, listen: What was that? Just now? They were doing the goddamn Macarena or whatever that crap was called.

  Enough, I said.

  Without intending to, I rose slightly into the air.

  Madame? the Frenchman said.

  I rose a little higher, began floating across the floor.

  Where are you going? the Frenchman said.

  Away, I said. I’ve had it.

  Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out, said my charge.

  Have a nice death, I said.

  And shot out through the wall.

  * * *

  —

  What a refreshment, to be out of that falsity-filled death chamber.

  Over at the wedding, the dancing was in full swing.

  Using just the right amount of leg-thrust, I propelled myself off the side of the house, over the redwood fence, and then, controlling the rate of my descent via skillful arm-flaps, drifted slowly down, landing gracefully, just so, among a crowd of dancers on a temporary parquet floor, and whisked at the speed of light from one guest to the next (two hundred and eleven in all), attempting to drive him out of my mind and fill it, instead, with these thousands of vivid, co-arising impressions.

  Such as:

  This fellow, gazing over at the aunt of the bride? Is Kent.

  The aunt of the bride (Jeanie) glances back at him. (Such heat.)

  Jeanie, the aunt of the bride, is having an affair.

  With Kent, boss of her husband.

  Whisking into Walter (Jeanie’s cheated-upon husband), I see that he’s known about the affair since March, but hasn’t let Jeanie know that he knows, because he’s afraid she might do something rash, such as leave him before she finally gets tired of/burns out on Kent, that petty tyrant, whose office, even when Kent is not in it, has this weird smell to it that seems to emanate from Kent’s chair, which means it ultimately must emanate from Kent’s ass/pants.

  Leaving Walter, locating/whisking into Jeanie (Walter’s wife, Kent’s lover), I learn that, yes, of course she’s noticed Kent’s smell, but doesn’t actually mind it, associating it, as she does, with long, sexy afternoons in Kent’s office on those days when Kent has sent Walter to Amarillo on business. If things go according to plan, Walter will soon begin traveling perpetually as part of his “promotion” (arranged by Kent) to Amarillo, to Oklahoma City, to Tulsa, to Lincoln, to Iowa City, and then back the same way (Iowa City, Lincoln, Tulsa, Oklahoma City, Amarillo), returning to Dallas only one weekend a month, meaning Kent will (joy, joy!) have her, Jeanie, entirely to himself (and vice versa) for, say, eight weeks out of every nine (!).

  She knew it was wrong. Walter was so sweet and kind. It would kill him if he found out.

  But he wasn’t going to find out.

  Unless she told him.

  Which she wasn’t going to. Until she decided to leave him. In order to dedicate herself wholeheartedly to fucking and being fucked by Kent. Which, she only now realized, she might have to.

  Soon, very soon.

  Maybe tonight.

  This thought sent a shivering, lustful thrill through her (through us).

  Oh, life, love, desire, I just couldn’t get enough.

  I sent my alertness out in every direction.

  Were the people here aware at all of the horrible truth Mr. Bhuti had just communicated?

  Yes, they were. Many of them knew about it, believed in it. But were carrying on.

  It was, after all, a wedding.

  Blasting out of Jeanie, I found Carol-Ann, the cheated-upon wife of Kent, sitting alone at a table near the pool, thinking (in response to Joyce, Joyce Jackson, a bright-eyed TV interviewer in her mind, who admired Carol-Ann for living her life in such a fun, optimistic way that gave hope to so many): No, Joyce, it doesn’t bother me at all that I’ve been sitting here alone practically the whole wedding. A modern woman is secure in who she is, and recognizes that her husband, when at a wedding with many of his co-workers, may find it necessary to offer each one of them meaningful face time.

  Now, Carol-Ann, says Joyce, checking her notes. I see here that Kent doesn’t often bring you to his office events, does he?

  No, he does not, Carol-Ann says. And, again, great question and thanks for having me. Opportunities like this really help me spread my message of hope and never getting down about anything.

  That is so true and insightful, replies Joyce. You have labored long and hard, it says here, in the pretty boring darn vineyard or orchard or whatnot of being constantly ignored all the time by Kent.

  Isn’t that the truth, says Carol-Ann. And isn’t that true of so many women these days?

  At which the crowd bursts into applause.

  Although, I have to ask, says Joyce. Kent seems, at the moment, kind of sweet on that dumpy little what’s-her-name. Doesn’t he?

  Jeanie? says Carol-Ann.

  Yes, Jeanie, says Joyce. See that right there? That look of adoration he just now shot her? And now she’s looking back at him with such narrowed sexy eyes. Can you, audience, feel the heat, like I’m feeling it?

  The audience could.

  The audience really could.

  Oh, shut up, Joyce, says Carol-Ann. Isn’t it time for a break or something?

  Well, as you know, Carol-Ann, Joyce says. We don’t take breaks here on this TV station that runs only in your mind.

  Oh, Joyce, Shmoyce, there was no Joyce and no TV show and she was just dumb old her at this boring stupid wedding in this big old honker-ass rich-person yard, watching her gross selfish pig of a husband put his boner for Jeanie on total public display.

  Which was why she was leaving. Right this minute.

  I whisked along behind her, staying within the orb of her thoughts as, fighting back tears, she (we) raced away through the crowd, resisting the urge to check to see if Kent had even noticed we were leaving, the big dope, and whether he might, for once, come rushing after us, having finally realized that if someone loved someone as much and in such a self-sacrificing way as we loved him, well, that was it, that was the person you should choose, right?

  Oh, how rich, to be in love, humiliated, longing to be taken back, striding along in new, uncomfortable spike heels, wearing, beneath our elegant new Elie Tahari sheath, some simply beautiful Fleur du Mal lingerie, in case this might turn out to be the evening Kent finally saw the light, but no, this was not going to be that evening, and now we had to go home and undress in utter despair and put on our big baggy comfortable Winnie-the-Pooh PJs and sob ourselves to sleep even as we considered how to present/rationalize this unprecedented bailing-on-the-wedding business in the most positive light possible when Kent came home.

  If, in fact, he ever did.

  Which, it wouldn’t be the first time since this Jeanie nonsense began that he hadn’t.

  Oh, Carol-Ann, I thought, you’re nice, you’re pretty, you deserve someone who’s simply crazy about you.

  Like Lloyd.

  Like Lloyd had been about me.

  For example:

  One “Christmas Eve,” when I had “stomach thingy,” he “called in sick,” yelling at “Sergeant Blue” that, yes, “for crap-sake,” he knew they were “short-staffed due to the holidays,” but what “the hey” did that have to do with the fact that “his wife, man” (who Blue knew and, Lloyd had always thought, liked, having met her that time at “bowling alley”) could “barely stand the hell up?” No, sorry, Blue could “shove it,” if that’s what it came down to, no disrespect intended, sir, but gosh! Then Lloyd slammed the phone down, came over, lifted me up off the couch like I was a baby, sat back down on it with me in his arms, and tenderly put his lips to my head to see if I was still burning up.

  Lost in this memory, I stopped short, causing Carol-Ann to clip-clip-clip despairingly away down the driveway, taking the orb of her thoughts with her.

  I was alone now, just myself, out in the world, free as the breeze.

  * * *

  —

  And soon became aware of a powerful energy.

  Like a beckoning call.

  Emanating from inside the wedding-house.

  From a sort of pantry in there.

  In I whisked.

  The bride and groom had snuck away, and he had her pushed into a corner and they were laughing at how long it was taking for her to hike up her voluminous—

  This was not the first time they had ever.

  But it was the first time they would today.

  Doing it in the pantry like this, during the reception, was, they felt, proof of the daring, special, epic love-bond between them.

  As long as they (yikes) didn’t get caught.

  In it went. She gasped. From the kitchen came a sound, and they laughed (oh God, this was too good, too memorable), and out it came, and the groom hustled off into the kitchen to fend off two snooping-around old ladies, by offering to show them the honeymoon brochure, if only he could find the darned thing, señoras, oh, wait, he knew where it was, it was in his jacket, out there in the reception, hanging over his chair at the main table, ladies, so please, come on, follow me!

  Oh, the secret thrill of sneaking away.

  Oh, the joy of someone wanting you so bad.

  Lloyd (muddy “head to toe,” just having finished “sled run number 6”) flings “cardboard sled” away like it’s no longer interesting, given that, you know, here I am, and his eyes light up with love, love for me, and he picks me up and totes me on his hip over behind the Sinclairs’ “garden shed,” while back on “patio,” “the gang” oohs and whoops and makes “smooching noises” and he whispers, “Jillie, kid, I want to give you what you really want,” which I find sort of risqué or racy, to which I go, “Oh, really, Mister Man, maybe this isn’t exactly the right time and place?” and his voice goes all soft, like: “Not that, kiddo, no. Well, yes to that, sure, any old time, but what I mean is, well: what you said you really wanted and have been bugging me about since basically day one? I just wanted to tell you that, you know, I’m ready. Whenever you are.”

  Which, what that meant was: a baby.

  Oh, dang, I could’ve ate that guy alive.

  Eek, I was rounding a critical bend now and, tell the truth, felt a tad bit more Jill than not.

  And was loving it!

  Against my better judgment, just one more:

  On “twin bed,” in little bedroom, in “duplex,” on “Crowne Street,” we tried and tried as, in through “open window” came (depending on “direction of wind”) “rose-scented breeze” or “garbage-stink” from “alley,” or, if “no wind at all,” it could be “hot as all get-out,” but “little did we care”! All that glorious summer we tried, doing it “every which way,” but it hardly seemed like “trying” for the sheer heat-sweaty lovely, longing, grunting, pushing, wanting of it all, and sometimes, from other half of “duplex,” “good old Jeri” would pound on the wall, shouting, “At least do it quiet!” But we would not do it quiet. No way. “Sorry, Jer!” Lloyd might shout back. “Come over and join us, kid!”

  And from over there Jer would cackle.

  Lloyd and I were “love match.” So “hot to trot.”

  Trying and trying all that summer.

  That “summer of ’76.”

  That “bicentennial summer.”

  “Happy Bday America,” Jeri’s “cute grandbrat,” Melinda, had scrawled in red, white, and blue “sidewalk chalk” across “driveway,” and, all summer long, Lloyd did his best not to wash “that saying” off, with the hose, out there in “elephant bells” (loose at the bottom, tight at the top) or, sometimes, pre-work, getting in some early watering, in full cop regalia, before heading down to the station for his dang shift.

  The bride, re-situated, rushed out of the pantry.

  Into the arms of the groom, who had somehow lost the two old ladies.

  Such a kiss.

  Such a kiss they shared.

  That seemed to promise many happy future days.

  And put me in mind of other kisses, from my bygone days.

  Of wishing to kiss; of having kissed; of having kissed too much; of having kissed not enough, of lying in “antique four-poster,” purchased by “Mother,” “on credit,” at “Sears,” her “favorite store,” while imagining being kissed by “Phil Everly,” “pop star”; of longing to be kissed (by someone, anyone, please, God) at “junior high skating party”; of sitting in “front seat” of Chevelle, swollen-lipped, joyful, having just been kissed, kissed, kissed by Daniel Masterson, “lab-partner in biology,” who, leaving Chevelle as if in a daze, stumbled toward “front door” being held open by his “quizzical-looking mom” (“Valerie”); of (ah, yes, here it was) being kissed by Lloyd, for “very first time,” at “stock car race” at “Raceway Park,” and all at once the “bleacher-seats” beneath us seemed to fall away and my hand was on his “blue-jeaned” leg, there beside “mustard stain,” my young mind running wild with thoughts of all the things we might (could, would) do, back in his “Impala,” away from all these—

  Golly.

  Goodness, gosh.

  I used to be a person, a full person, with many small memories, small, lovely—

  Such as:

  In “front entry,” on “little credenza,” “photos” of “Mom,” “Mom and Dad,” “me and Dad,” and just “Dad” leaning against Chevelle with “cocky look” on face, because “had dimples,” because “cute” and knew it.

  And:

  You held “Barbie” by her legs and “whack-whack-whacked” her against the much-larger “Mrs. Briggs” doll, “Barbie’s” way of “pitching a fit” because “Mrs. Briggs” had said no, she was not allowed to climb out of “bathtub” to “go on date.”

  And:

  “Me, Mom, Dad” at “St. Monica’s,” my little body warming up but just on one side in the many-colored light beaming down from “stained-glass window” showing six gaunt gray “Apostles” pulling a net of fish up into their already fish-tilted boat.

  Could make left wrist (but not right) crack by giving it “good hard pop.”

  In terms of times tables: nines and elevens, easy; twelves not “my cup of tea.”

  In “big hallway mirror,” I looked “so long and pretty,” like (Big Deb, mom of my best friend, Little Deb, would say) “a dang gazelle.”

  In terms of favorites: Color: green; Season: winter; Candy: “Smarties.”

  Dad, watching me looking up all reverent at those Apostles in that tilted boat, gives me a double-pat on the shoulder, as in: You’re good, kid, sure am fond of you, Jillie.