I am entirely at peace, I said.

  He smiled sadly, then blinked twice, as if to change the subject.

  Weakened as I am, he said, I find myself in danger of passing into that realm from which no further positive action will ever be possible. Would you mind, madame? Terribly?

  Mindful of his frailty, I lifted him up and, centralizing my considerable strength, exploded him upward, holding in my heart the intention of sending him back to that distant place to which those of our ilk must return when in need of a fresh beginning.

  Up he went.

  Merci, he called weakly from already a great distance away.

  * * *

  —

  I dropped through the roof, through the attic, into the room of my charge, and gently reentered the orb of his thoughts.

  Outwardly, he lay as before (eyes closed, lips slightly parted, one hand under the covers, the other above) while inwardly he found himself back at his old school. Having just learned what a plebiscite was, his classmates were holding one. On him. On what he’d become, how he’d done. Always there’d been fifteen of them. In the school. Fifteen students. Then little Mag Ebner got run over by a tractor. A tractor driven by her own mother. That made fourteen. Somehow, for the plebiscite, they’d resurrected Mag. And her mother. Who, after killing Mag, had put her head in the oven. She hadn’t died then but two years later. You’d see her out on the porch, spitting blankly into an invisible cup. Now both were alive again, ready to vote. Glory be. That made fifteen. Fifteen voters, excluding him. Plus their teacher, Miss Eva. One by one they stood up, said what they thought of him. In the end, he won: sixteen to zero. Loving him, proud of him, they urged him to go ahead and vote, vote for himself. Which made it seventeen to zero and Miss Eva read aloud from a joint proclamation: No matter how many negative, accusatory signs might be manifesting, he, K. J. Boone, must remember that, against heavy odds, he’d lived an extraordinary life, full of tremendous accomplishment, and had always done his best and, in sum, had done nothing wrong, not a goddamn thing, and was leaving behind no lasting harm, zero, nada, none at all: a world better for having had him in it, period, full stop.

  Miss Eva had admired him early, before anyone else, and had never been shy about saying so. Which’d meant the world to him. God bless her. He felt, just now, like being honest with her. He approached her desk.

  Yes? she said, warm as ever, the area around her desk smelling, as did the papers she would hand back, of rosewater.

  He hadn’t thought it up.

  He wanted her to know that.

  Thought what up, dear? she said.

  What was the—what was the word. For the thing he hadn’t thought up but one of the Mels had. Or that stooge of one of the Mels. He couldn’t remember which of the Mels that guy had been the stooge of.

  With the giant hands. When you shook that bastard’s hand you felt like a baby shaking hands with a man. But you could easily lay Big Hands low.

  Sit over there, you terrifying giant, he’d say. I don’t want you over here by me. Sit there, in that corner. You’re sneaky, Conrad, you make me nervous, I’m scared you’ll nab my wallet. Or pitch me out the window, you horrifying monster.

  Conrad, that was it.

  Fee, fi, fo, fum, Conrad.

  Then big-handed Conrad would meekly slink over to wherever you’d put him.

  Always sniffing after a check, that guy.

  In one of those huge hands, a check looked like a goddamn postage stamp.

  Because Miss Eva was being made by his mind, she knew exactly what he was talking about.

  And rose in her fondness to his defense.

  That petition, you mean, she said.

  Petition, he said. Yes.

  Oh, it was nice to be known so well.

  Well, as far as that goes, Kenneth? she said. For all its faults? That petition was powerful. Wasn’t it? A powerful tool. You’d stand onstage there in some packed auditorium and say: Right here, signatures from seventeen thousand scientists who don’t believe the science here is rock-solid. Wouldn’t you?

  Yes, he said.

  He surely would. He’d hold the thing up dramatically, let it unfurl.

  And unfurl.

  And unfurl.

  Every one of these signatures represents a scientist, he’d say. Who worked and studied and mastered his or her field. Who demurs. Who respectfully disagrees. Think about that, he’d say. And ask yourself: Is it possible we’ve got some hysteria going on here?

  Then from out in that auditorium would come a sound (or, to be more precise, an abrupt diminishment of sound) that indicated: minds being changed. Maybe not changed: softened. The sound of just a little bit of doubt sneaking in there. Folks sitting on the fence were suddenly, guess what? Less on the fence. Even the Luddites/pearl clutchers/prophets of doom were given pause. You could feel it in that new quality of quiet.

  Seventeen thousand scientists?

  That got a person’s attention.

  If later someone pointed out in the local rag that certain of the signatories (i.e., Bugs Bunny/Mozart/Abe Lincoln et al.) were not, strictly speaking, living scientists: no matter. Not every person who’d been in that crowd would see the correction.

  Boom: a win.

  And, well, yes, guilty as charged: even after Landon or Lerner or London from Legal had pulled him aside and pointed out the alarming prevalence of spurious signatures in the thing (Thomas Edison? Elvis Presley? Come on, it was actually kind of funny), they’d (he’d) continued, occasionally, to use it. To tout it. To, uh, unfurl it. As needed. The whole thing was a kind of white lie, okay? Like, in an opera, when, to indicate HOUSE, you put up a huge brightly colored cutout of a HOUSE.

  Everyone knew it wasn’t a real house.

  But it sufficed. Did the trick.

  Served the cause.

  Is that your confession, Kenneth? Miss Eva said.

  Yes, he said, relieved to have it off his chest.

  Her eyes narrowed the way they would when a student needed a correction and she was about to give it.

  I don’t envy you, Kenneth, she said. Even with all your many houses.

  Miss Eva had always lived in a modest house by the fairgrounds. And often spoke of it bitterly to the class. Her pantry was insufficient. The flour and sugar had to be kept on top of the stove, so, when cooking, she had to relocate these to the dining table, which itself was barely large enough to accommodate two decent-sized platters, which made it all but impossible to host a proper gathering.

  Do you find it honorable, Kenneth? Miss Eva said. To confess only the most minor of your sins?

  Thinking of her inadequate little house had apparently put Miss Eva into a snit.

  Sins, my ass.

  Look, he said.

  You look, she said.

  Something funny was happening out the schoolhouse window.

  And don’t look away, she said.

  Crow Creek was just pure shit, flowing past. A fisherman in hip waders was midstream, fishing away, holding his nose. The clouds had a sulfur taint and the flowers the class had planted near the fence were in flames. The town’s dogs raced by in a pack, seeking a source of clean water. The leaves on the trees were turning to shit and dropping. Plop, plop, plop. A shit-leaf plopped right into Mother’s best purse. What was Mother’s best purse doing out here at the schoolhouse? She’d had only that one, long as he’d known her. Later, when she was already old, he’d bought her three new ones in Paris: Hermès, Gucci, Prada. She’d never had any use for them. Too fancy, too badly designed. There was no place to actually put anything. Only her old purse would do. Now here it was, filling up with shit-leaves. Mother was going to hit the ceiling. Here was Mother now. Standing beside Miss Eva. Eek, hello, Mother. She glowered at him more fiercely than she’d ever glowered at him in life.

  And she’d glowered at him pretty fiercely in life.

  What have you got yourself into, Kenneth? she said harshly.

  He’s lying to beat the band, said Miss Eva. Lying right to my face.

  It’s the drugs, he said. You two are. You’re the drugs.

  It all starts to cave in on him, said Mother.

  His long service to his colossal ego begins to undo him, said Miss Eva.

  I’ll head home, he said.

  Don’t walk away from me, said Miss Eva.

  Don’t you dare walk away from your teacher, boy, said Mother.

  Disregard us at your peril, said Miss Eva.

  I’m making you dumb bunnies with my mind, he said.

  Miss Eva and Mother strolled away down a non-shit path that opened up before them, a strip of green grass extending off into infinity, searching for some quiet place where they could sit and disparage him further.

  The path was fake too, also made by his mind.

  Fuck it.

  Fuck this noise.

  He knew he was overmedicated even as he stood on the little front porch of the school and observed once again the familiar midafternoon pattern the elm branches made on the dusty burlap mat on which they were required to wipe their feet, once, twice, thrice, once-twice-thrice is nice.

  Jesus, getting into the weeds here.

  Little help please, Lord.

  * * *

  * * *

  —

  He walked slowly home, observing many things along the way: tire ruts from a specific long-ago rainy afternoon on which Father got the Chevy stuck; a football lost in 1948; the familiar cluster of ancient plow parts near the Robisons’ faded red barn. His childhood home was ugly but lovely to him. A warped plank set itself apart from its fellows just there, under the mail slot. The front door made the same old squeak. He moved through the house, noting many long-forgotten things: a chip in the molding they’d always thought resembled Clark Gable in profile; the trouty smell of the under-stairs nook where his fishing gear was kept. Above Mother’s dresser: a taped-up inspirational quote from a ladies’ magazine, yellowing with age. On the dresser itself: two wristwatches rubber-banded together, a mirrored tray holding a modest array of cosmetics, an owl feather, a ring made of bits of string (a gift from the spirited, unmanageable Willamina). Did the room smell of his mother? It did, it did.

  For all the difficulties of his childhood, he cherished the old place still.

  One of Mother’s slips hung from a doorknob. Mother herself was nowhere to be found. Only the little kitten, Belvedere, long dead, was here, alive again, batting around a paper wad. From this window a fellow could see, down the block, the elegant Minton place. As a teen one night he’d lingered under a lamppost, watching the Mintons move around inside. Mrs. Minton had paused in front of a window, holding up a vase. In her genteel way. For Mr. Minton to admire. Well, that struck a chord. No genteel proffering of vases was happening back at his house. No sir. There it was time for the slaughter. Two goats and a pig, each of which he knew by name. He was damn well meant to help. With the slaughter. Of Emile (goat) and Sally-Bob (pig). While Clarabell (goat) looked on. That night, from her pen, Clarabell sent out a series of mourning bleats. He’d badly wanted to go to her.

  Sit, Father had growled. Sit, you.

  Oh, those days, those brutal days.

  (Dear man.

  My charge wanted me to know him. To understand who he was, what he’d done.)

  Then (a ray of hope) his first-ever time on the course out at Cheyenne C.C.: the lush deep grass, the expensive leather bags, the clubs themselves (gleaming, weaponlike), the way the men (local Wyoming clodhopper big shots he’d long since outclassed) would step grandly out of fine golf carts (like spaceships in their newness) and survey things casually, then issue some offhanded order to a kid (him, a caddy trainee, in that pair of khakis Mother’d managed to scrounge up from somewhere and a button-down of Father’s she’d heroically altered) and then, end of the round, the guy would slip you a quarter, maybe a half-dollar.

  How old are you, son? Twelve? Really? You look younger. You did fine with that bag, though. You surely did. It’s about as big as you are, slick. You two were wrassling, weren’t you? Sometimes it was winning and sometimes you were.

  It felt like a secret society a kid might someday join. He (even he) might someday become a man who tipped big and padded off across that lush fairway like a king, talking about the best steak joints in Los Angeles/Reno/Canada, about some fellow some other fellows had beaten the living shit out of, after which there was going to be no more trouble on that front, believe you me. Leaning into one another to whisper brutal, necessary secrets, cigarettes held out behind them, out of the circle, and then, once the secret had been shared, the men would step abruptly back, breaking the huddle, and take deep, punctuating drags, as if to cleanse by smoke the sin of the secret, and one of them might cast a glance over at him, the lowly caddy, as if to say: If you heard that, son, I trust you’ll keep your royal trap shut.

  And he would.

  He always would. That’s what powerful men did. Stayed quiet. Held secrets. Ran things from inside a tight protective circle, making perilous decisions only they were savvy enough to make, leaving normal morality to the mere earthlings, who lived and ate and died dully down below, never knowing the extent to which they were being shielded by a beneficent distant pulling of strings.

  Going home, after a day like that? Heartbreaking. Everything back at home was so mean, so old-fashioned, so frugal. He was using too much dish soap? Having had his morning of fun, he could come down to earth and put every last cent of his tip money there in the Common Jar and get cracking on some badly neglected chores, mister, and darn well stop playing the dandy?

  No.

  No, no.

  It was all too small.

  (Did I see? Did that make sense?

  Yes, I said.)

  He wasn’t going to live like that.

  So: college in Michigan and that summer he’d become a wiry bantam rooster of an expert moving low and fast among his citified classmates and the following magical autumn when, by way of certain compliments, nicknames, and fellowships bestowed upon him by faculty, it became clear that the mastery of a short list of subjects (econ, sedimentology, organic chemistry) could make his dream (of stepping out of a spaceship-like cart into a circle of adoring caddies who’d just been enviously/fearfully discussing him and his beautiful new shoes) come true.

  And it had all been accomplished. Not easily, but smoothly. With work, hard work, but no real struggle. Up, up, up he went. (Could I even begin to imagine the thrill of that?) He loved the work and believed in it. (He loved the work and it loved him back, he always said.) He became part of a tribe, a tribe of brothers (and some sisters, yes, even back then) and soon emerged as a leader of that tribe. He’d loved the tribe. Loved it dearly. Was proud to be part of it, thrilled to be giving his days to it and to find himself rising up effortlessly within it.

  And never along the way had there been a moment of hesitation or doubt or anything but a growing gratitude that he’d been formed in such a way that his natural strengths were just what the world required.

  Then came a challenge. A drumbeat, a steady drumbeat. Of objection. To who he was, to what the tribe was about. Their enemies were hyperbolic, hysterical, irrational, over-the-top, panic-stricken. Piss and moan, piss and moan was all they knew how to do. They were losers, trivial people, reckless in speech and action. They took but knew not from whence the bounty flowed. They were rude, dismissive, sent insulting letters to his home, talked him down in public, all while understanding not the first damn thing about what he, what they (the tribe), actually did: how bold it was, how risky, how often they failed, losing, sometimes, millions in the trying.

  Terrible, I said.

  And to come to the point: What had he ever “denied”? Nothing. He’d challenged, sure, he’d asked for a higher level of certainty, he’d pulled at loose threads in certain specious arguments, he’d pointed out the existence of a range of valid scientific opinions out there re what, exactly, was happening.

  And for that, he’d become the villain of the piece, the principal baddie.

  That must have been difficult, I said.

  Yes, he said. Yes it was. Thank you. For understanding that.

  But it didn’t matter. The tribe saw him clearly. The tribe knew what was what. The tribe was made, to a person, of honest, straightforward, trustworthy, hardworking folks.

  Salt of the earth.

  Good people all.

  He wanted me to know that.

  There’d been no sin involved in any of it, none at all.

  Then his eyes widened at a sound from across the room.

  * * *

  —

  He was dying, for reasons unclear, in the least appealing room of his magnificent home.

  A pair of red velvet drapes hung on the eastern wall, as if to frame a view out a window. But there was no window. The space would also have been ideal for a valued painting. But there was no painting and no indication that one had ever hung there.

  These purposeless drapes seemed part of some abandoned attempt to render the room regal. Above the fireplace hung the helmet from a suit of armor. On a side table near the love seat a set of miniature brass knights was arranged around a lamp as if laying siege to it. This aspiration to regality competed with an earlier attempt at an Old West theme: on the wall above the dresser hung an arrangement of antlers, an old saddle, two Colt .45s in an African blackwood display case. An empty medical bed took up what was left of the room but the speed with which my charge’s illness had overtaken him meant that he’d never felt well enough to be transferred to it.

  Hear that? he said.

  Yes, I said.

  We were hearing the thrashing sound one of our ilk will sometimes make as it struggles itself into being. One must want desperately to appear and, even so, might only partly succeed: one might arrive in waves, or in a diminished state. One’s appearance might be distorted by detritus from one’s psyche or the manner of one’s passing. Even having succeeded, one might fade away before one’s desires were fully realized.