Something soft in Hannah’s face, in that instant, the ponytailed boy registers. Stops him in his tracks as if Hannah has reached out to touch, calm him.

  “Last time I was here, you were a lot friendlier, Mrs. J__.”

  “I—I don’t remember that …”

  “Sure you do. How’d you get home, without me?”

  Hannah is trembling badly. All she can do is repeat that if he leaves she won’t call the police or tell anyone. If he leaves now.

  The ponytailed boy laughs at this threat for Hannah’s voice is weak, wavering.

  He brushes past Hannah into the large, light-filled kitchen. Glances about, assessing. The tile floor is a rich russet Mexican tile, sunlight reflects on copper pans displayed like art against a white brick wall.

  The ponytailed boy whistles thinly through his teeth—“Jesus!”

  He laughs, he’s impressed. But he’s also laughing at the fact that he is impressed. Hannah understands that such laughter is meant to be placating.

  Signaling to her: No danger! Mrs. J__ is in no danger.

  “Thought I’d drop by, I’m in the vicinity on business. He sent me here—you know, him.”

  Hannah swallows hard. No need to inquire who him is.

  “I’m, like, his ‘lieutenant.’ He trusts me. Like he trusted me driving you home.”

  Hannah is standing very still. Hannah’s thoughts flutter and flail about like moths stymied by light.

  Hannah thinks—I will not ask. I have no reason to ask.

  “He doesn’t know I’m here, though. This is ‘solo.’”

  Swaggering farther into the kitchen. Hannah has no choice but to follow. On the wall beside the refrigerator six feet away from her is the beige plastic telephone.

  … get the receiver into her hand, dial 911 before he can stop her …

  But no: The ponytailed boy would slap the receiver out of her hand, Hannah can foresee.

  Any sudden gesture of hers, to protect herself, to defend herself against him, will trigger him to lay his hands on her, Hannah knows. Cannot risk.

  Yet—must risk.

  The ponytailed boy has removed his dark glasses. His skin is heated, his eyes unnaturally alert, alive. He turns to look pointedly at Hannah, seeing in her face a sick-guilty look, something like shame.

  Hannah is wearing very little makeup. Her hair hasn’t been “lightened” in weeks. Without mascara her eyes are naked, raw—disconcerting for the ponytailed boy to see, up close.

  Like any woman, any-age woman, her frightened eyes, just—staring into his. Christ!

  He, the intruder, has seen Hannah disheveled, near-naked sprawled in filthy bedclothes. He has seen her utterly vulnerable, exposed in a way no one else, including her husband, has seen her. She has not (therefore) the privilege to refuse him.

  She has surrendered her right to resist. She has been broken, defiled—haphazardly mended, a delicate vase whose broken pieces have been inexpertly glued back together.

  Hannah tells the intruder that he must leave. Must leave her house now.

  Her children will be returning home soon, their nanny will be returning them. Her husband—

  “Fuck ‘husband.’ He isn’t coming anytime soon. I did some surveillance and nobody’s here.” The ponytailed boy’s voice rises in derision.

  It’s true, the large Colonial house is silent, empty. The intruder hasn’t been deceived by the woman’s feeble lie.

  Only just Mrs. J__ alone drifting undefined as a wraith through the rooms.

  “Like I said, Mrs. J__, I’m out here on business—‘Bloomfield Hills.’ So, came to see you.”

  Sounding jovial, yet wistful. Pushy and boastful, but uneasy.

  Doesn’t Mrs. J__ like him? In those eggshell-thin dreams behind his eyelids Mikey Kushel has thought so, he has imagined.

  In Rollerball, he’d have risked his life for her. No greater glory than to be a warrior for the sake of a beautiful woman …

  Hannah is confused by the ponytailed boy’s tone, uncertain. Whether to be terrified, or—to feel tenderness? The intruder is so young.

  Hannah hears herself saying she will get her handbag, her wallet, she will give him a “tip.” She’d meant to give him a “tip”—but she’d forgotten. That night.

  Barely, Hannah can remember that night. But she does remember the ponytailed boy.

  But now, the ponytailed boy is looking hurt, crestfallen. It isn’t money he wants, he has plenty of money he tells Hannah boastfully, he’d just dropped by to see her.

  “That’s all—just to, like, say hello.” Adding, “This business I expedited today—it’s gonna be ‘news’ soon.”

  “It is!”—Hannah laughs nervously.

  No idea what the ponytailed boy is talking about in such an elated voice but she feels some relief, he seems less hostile to her now.

  “You watch TV news? Maybe gonna be on TV tonight.”

  Hannah has been moving slowly in the direction of the wall phone. Like a sleepwalker determined not to misstep, stumble. As it happens her hemp-woven shoulder bag is on a chair near the phone, and inside the bag is Hannah’s wallet …

  Hannah concentrates on approaching the telephone as unobtrusively as possible, yet openly, so that the ponytailed boy has no reason to be suspicious of her; there is a kind of spell or trance between them which Hannah doesn’t want to break. The ponytailed boy does not fully trust her, she supposes, neither does he distrust her.

  Except: Hannah wouldn’t dare touch the phone in these circumstances. Akin to an excruciating close-up in a movie, heightened slow motion, suspense that leaves the actors short of breath in the exigency of the scene.

  Don’t dare touch, nor even appear to be aware of the phone (now) within her reach. Hannah is keenly aware even as the ponytailed boy doesn’t appear to be aware at all.

  Hannah is fascinated by the possibility the phone represents: the temptation to risk all, to seize it.

  Though the possibility the phone represents is identical to its impossibility, practically speaking.

  As Hannah’s performance in the kitchen precludes a violent sexual act perpetrated upon her, unless it precedes such an act.

  In each, there is a casual connection which, once triggered, will appear to have been inevitable, irrevocable; yet, at this moment, is entirely improvisational, a matter of choosing.

  As turning the steering wheel of her car leaving the Far Hills Marriott, whether to the left (downtown Detroit) or to the right (Cradle Rock Road) was likewise an act of free will even as, as it was happening, the astonished driver seemed to be observing her own hands belatedly, in the act of turning.

  Each (involuntary) (voluntary) action of ours leads to (a) death, inevitably. The only variant is when.

  In a lifetime contiguous with this lifetime, parallel with it, separated from it by the sheerest membrane, the impossibility has been overcome and Hannah has managed with groping fingers to lift the phone (unnoticed by the ponytailed boy) from the wall, to press the magic numerals 911 …

  But no: It’s her wallet that Hannah is holding out to the ponytailed boy like a talisman, with a brave smile Hannah has unsnapped the beige kidskin wallet displaying the interior, credit cards, large-denomination bills, her hand trembles with chagrin as the ponytailed boy stares at her, his young face darkening with indignation.

  “Lady, I said I didn’t want your fucking money. That’s not what a ‘tip’ is.”

  Still smiling bravely, blindly Hannah has removed a bill, two bills, to offer to the indignant young man, no idea what the denominations are, indeed Hannah would hand over the entire wallet to the intruder if he demands it, she is abject in apology, humbled in shame and guilt, but instead he slaps the wallet out of her hand, cursing.

  “Fuck it! I fucking told you.”

  Hannah is shaken, for a moment thinking that the intruder has struck her, she feels faint, head swirling, but wills herself to recover, she will be all right.

  How fast it has happened, this eruption of violence. Provoking the male she has brought disaster upon herself for now it is his prerogative to punish.

  “I want a Goddamned drink. That’s what I want, lady.”

  Adding, as Hannah shrinks from him: “Also I’m hungry, too. Haven’t eaten all day.”

  The ponytailed boy is speaking with an air of reproach. His face is sullen, his red-rimmed eyes accusing. He has been genuinely wounded by her insensitivity, she is to blame.

  She, the woman. The mother.

  A slut, slut-woman, purely a cunt yet: the mother.

  What he wants from the mother is nourishment: drink, food. Hannah is astonished, she should have realized.

  That tone of male reproach, Hannah recognizes. No woman has not heard it, the deep thrill of it, the threat, cringing as you await the next blow, the blow (you know) you deserve and when the blow does not come, oxygen flows into your lungs, veins, arteries like joy.

  Realizing now, even as perspiration breaks crudely in her armpits and between her thighs, that the intruder is, like Hannah, improvising desperately, inventing.

  Like hers, his heart is beating rapidly. All of his senses are alert. Edging out onto thin ice, aware that the ice may begin to crack at any moment, frightened of the danger, thrilled by the danger.

  “Sit here. Of course—you must be hungry …”

  Not a hostage in the house, a hostess. Hannah is determined.

  Hannah pulls out a chair, invites the aggrieved young man to sit at the kitchen table, she will bring him something to drink, something to eat.

  If she feeds him, he will not hurt her. If she serves him, humbles herself before him. If he pities her.

  Trying to think: When will Ismelda return with the children? In an hour? Within an hour?

  Or, no: not until after four. Closer to five.

  If Ismelda returns, the ponytailed boy will be defeated. He will certainly flee, Hannah will be safe from him.

  But the possibility that Ismelda will see the ponytailed boy is terrifying to Hannah who has not the words to explain the stranger’s presence in her house.

  No words!—no words with which Hannah might explain the deep shame of the ponytailed boy.

  Recalling a favorite joke of Joker Daddy at which no one ever laughed—If I tell you this secret I will have to kill you.

  From a cupboard Hannah fetches a bottle of Italian red wine, opened by Wes the other evening for just himself and Hannah. She tugs at the cork, pours half a glass of wine for the ponytailed boy, sees her shaky hand set the glass before him like an offering. He’s suspicious (perhaps), unfamiliar with wine (perhaps), but lifts the glass to taste, makes a face, as a child might, as Conor might, but decides it’s okay, empties the glass in a single swallow.

  Beer might have been more appropriate, Hannah supposes. Indeed, there is some of Wes’s beer in the refrigerator.

  “You, too. You have a drink, too, Mrs. J__.”

  Hannah laughs, startled. Now the hostess is being invited to drink with the intruder …

  Rapist! The rape victim, sharing a bottle of Italian wine with her rapist.

  It will be held against her, a judgment. All that happens between them, as soon as Hannah opened the door of her own free will, a door otherwise locked, and allowed the intruder into her house, a judgment against her.

  Hannah pours wine into the ponytailed boy’s glass and into a glass for herself. These are beautiful wineglasses, ultra-thin glass, sparkling clean for Ismelda washes them by hand with much care. With a hostess’s innocent vanity Hannah hopes that the ponytailed boy is impressed.

  Not accustomed to drinking from a wineglass, Hannah thinks.

  Will that spare her? How the thug intruder is impressed by the suburban hostess!

  Saying, with a lopsided grin, now wine-warmed, not so belligerent—“Sit down, Mrs. J__. Keep me company.”

  “I—I will … I will.”

  It’s a movie scene, Hannah thinks. The terrified woman becomes an automaton, to save herself.

  Rape victim desperate to save herself, serving the rapist.

  Through a roaring of blood in her ears Hannah brings a loaf of multigrain bread to the kitchen table, several pieces of cheese. Brie, cheddar, Jarlsberg. Leftover chicken thighs, wrapped in tinfoil. An opened jar of Mott’s applesauce with cinnamon, a favorite of the children. The ponytailed boy is indeed hungry. He chews rapidly, wipes at his mouth as he eats. Hannah gives him a paper napkin imprinted with bunnies, the children’s napkins. (Wes detests paper napkins and will only accept cloth napkins.) The ponytailed boy isn’t offended by paper napkins, and does not hesitate to eat with his hands. Hannah provides him with a spoon for the applesauce, which he eats from the jar. He finishes his second glass of wine, indicates with a grunt he’d like more. He eats, he is very happily eating. Certainly high on some drug and now beginning to be drunk, festive. Perspiration beads on his forehead, his mouth twitches into a smile. His eyes seem to Hannah unnaturally bright. Raw like her own, naked.

  Hannah should be grateful, her rapist is not a mean drunk.

  “You don’t know my name, do you. It’s Mike.”

  “Mike.” Hannah utters the name tentatively, as if it were foreign, wondrous.

  “Mikey—used to be. When I was a kid.”

  “Mikey.”

  Boastfully he confides in Hannah that before he’d come to Cradle Rock Road to see her, he’d been in Bloomfield Hills. “A really big house—bigger than this one. Behind a high fence.”

  Hannah has begun to listen. Bloomfield Hills?

  “… ‘Bal-moral Drive.’ You have to know a secret code to open the gate but when I got there the gate was open.” Adding: “Because I was expected.”

  Hannah has to wonder who it is living on Balmoral Drive who would be expecting Mikey. She can’t recall any one of her acquaintance who lives in that most prestigious area of Bloomfield Hills, an enclave of GM executives …

  The ponytailed boy is sucking at his lower lip, defiant yet wistful. Like Conor when he’d hoped for more attention, praise. Hannah ponders how to flatter this volatile person without arousing his suspicion, she is skilled at flattering people yet she’s cautious of blundering in her very flattery, saying the wrong thing: doesn’t want the ponytailed boy to strike at her again, as quick and vengeful as a snake.

  She wonders, could he kill her? Would he?

  She doesn’t want to think so, there’s a bond between them.

  “Know what, Mrs. J__? We could watch TV news.”

  Suddenly, the ponytailed boy is excited. As if this suggestion makes sense. Hannah has no choice but to lead him to the TV room.

  There, Mikey whistles thinly through his teeth at the sight of the TV set, presumably its size: set in a solid mahogany cabinet with double doors, a screen measuring twenty-seven inches (diagonally). He squats before it, turns it on, switches impatiently through the channels encountering no news, only talk shows, cartoons, advertisements.

  “Fuck! Where’s the fucking news.”

  Hannah tells the indignant Mikey it’s the wrong time. This time of day there are no news broadcasts on TV, you have to wait for six o’clock.

  Feeling a chill wash over her, having said this. How heedless, stupid, to have suggested that ponytailed Mikey should wait in her house more than two hours, until six …

  “Fuck fuck fuck. There’s big news coming, where the fuck is it!”

  Rising to his feet with a grunt, stumbling to sit on a leather sofa, heavily. His words have become slurred, he has become drunk within a few short minutes. Hannah guesses that he has rarely drunk wine. Glaring at Hannah he shakes his head as if to clear it.

  “All I can say—fuck.”

  Seven-year-old Conor could not be more disappointed. The ponytailed boy’s elation has vanished within seconds, like air escaping from a balloon.

  Hannah holds her breath hoping he won’t think of asking her to turn on a radio.

  Holds her breath hoping he will suddenly decide to leave …

  She dares not suggest it. She dares not beg him. Dares not speak to him at all.

  Unnerving, that Mikey didn’t want her money. He’d said he wanted a tip but no, he hadn’t wanted a tip. Hannah doesn’t want to think what he might want.

  “Fuck ‘news.’ Know what?—we can finish that wine.”

  With the alacrity of an obedient wife Hannah goes to the kitchen for the remains of the wine, both wineglasses, glancing covertly at the wall phone six feet away.

  How strange of the ponytailed boy, how (naïvely) trusting, he’d let Hannah out of his sight. Let her walk away.

  No. You can’t.

  Can’t risk it, he could kill you.

  The way he’d slapped the wallet out of her hand. How swift his reflexes, like a young athlete. Hannah hadn’t seen his hand flying at her until it had struck hers.

  Yet: She could run outside screaming for help. Out the driveway, into the road?

  No neighbors would hear her of course. Shut up in their air-conditioned houses set back from the road, or away on vacation. But there are surely workmen in the area, a lawn crew, roofers …

  But no, dare not.

  Drunk and crazy enough to run after you and drag you back.

  Beat you with his fists, in a bawling rage like a momma’s baby, rape you on the tile floor until he tore up your insides …

  Almost, Hannah can recall the violent rape on the (concrete, filthy) floor of the stairwell at the Marriott. The faceless assailant, squeezing the (white) woman’s slender throat in both his hands until she loses consciousness.

  No, no! Cannot risk.

  Must show your captor that you are eager to obey him.

  And so Hannah’s bare legs in chic Bermuda shorts move numbly returning her to the wood-paneled TV room transformed by the insolent figure sprawled on the leather sofa in the very place where Wes sits in the evening with his shoes kicked off, drink in hand, staring at the screen in his stiff attentive way to indicate to anyone who has stepped into the room Don’t interrupt!

  The children have their own, smaller TV to watch, and so don’t often interrupt Daddy. But if Hannah joins him, Wes will acknowledge her with a minimal nod of his head without breaking his attention: He will be very annoyed if Hannah speaks to him before there’s a break for an advertisement.