He’d fled from her, last spring. He knew. But now, he had to return to her. She has saved his life, she has come to dwell in his heart.

  In astonishment Hannah listens to this flood of words. With a part of her mind she is disbelieving—incredulous. Yet with another part of her mind she is totally convinced. For never has anyone spoken so openly to Hannah, never has a man wept in her arms. The emotion, the shuddering tears—Hannah is sure that they are genuine.

  She feels exalted, empowered. Comforting her distressed lover.

  Of course she can become pregnant again, forty is not old.

  Asking her lover if he could love Conor and Katya? As if they were his own?

  That’s to say—another man’s children. As if they were his own.

  Asking in a wistful voice. For she has shown Y.K. pictures of Conor and Katya, he’d been struck by their beauty.

  But of course, if Hannah is their mother, it isn’t surprising that the children are beautiful, Y.K. told her. The little girl especially resembles Hannah.

  “Yes, darling. Of course. I’ve already begun to love them—just seeing their pictures.”

  Most of his adult life, Y.K. says, he’d despaired of having children. Bringing children into this despoiled world. But now, his feelings have altered. She has entered his life.

  He has lost his mother but Hannah has come to him. A door closes. A door opens.

  When will Y.K. meet Conor and Katya?—the lovers must make a plan. He will come to Far Hills, they will meet in a park, perhaps. The first meeting should be casual, brief. They can walk together, the children can have ice cream.

  Hannah shivers with excitement, dread. How calmly she is discussing introducing her lover to her children! Perhaps it’s all unreal, beyond comprehension.

  This is strange: Of the children’s father Hannah scarcely thinks at all. As if Wes has ceased to exist, and would register no objection to another man taking his place with the children.

  None of this is remotely possible. You must know that.

  In the light-filled room on the sixty-first floor of the Renaissance Grand Hotel. In the enormous bed, in the lover’s arms. Her toes curl in the very ecstasy, Hannah has entered a realm of being beyond probability.

  Basking in the lover’s arms. Becalmed, at peace.

  After a moment Y.K. says—quietly: he isn’t a boastful person—that Hannah should know, he has made a fair amount of money in his business dealings, apart from his family business. Particularly real estate.

  For instance, one of the companies with which he is associated has been a sizable investor in the Renaissance Plaza.

  Ah!—Hannah understands now, she thinks. This is the link between Y.K. and Detroit businessmen.

  “Like the Jarretts,” Y.K. says. “Your husband’s family.”

  How does he know this?—Hannah wonders. She feels flattered if slightly uneasy.

  “Though my investment isn’t as large as theirs, I think.”

  Y.K. seems to be waiting for Hannah to respond. But Hannah has no idea how to respond. She has never discussed her husband’s business dealings with Y.K. in the past, she has very little knowledge of them.

  Instead she brings up a subject that is awkward for her to speak of even in this intimate setting: “Do you think—should I—should I be thinking of telling Wes about us? About—maybe …” Hannah’s voice falters, she cannot utter the word divorce.

  But what am I saying!—Hannah thinks. She could never leave Wes, he would refuse to allow it. The humiliation for him would be ruinous. Out of revenge he would win custody of the children, he would crush her.

  Still, Hannah is hopeful that her lover will say yes.

  But Y.K. doesn’t reply, for some time. Even as he is kissing Hannah’s neck, caressing her shoulders.

  Finally telling her no. Not just yet.

  Hannah says that it’s becoming increasingly difficult to live with Wes, to share a bed with him. To see him.

  All the while thinking of him—her lover.

  But Y.K. says it’s too soon to be thinking of divorce. Too soon to be telling her husband anything.

  “There’s a considerable loss of money,” Y.K. says. “On both sides if there’s a divorce, but particularly the wife’s side.”

  Their estate would be halved, at best. It’s possible that Wes has money in accounts she knows nothing about, in the Cayman Islands for instance. In the event of a divorce, her income would plummet.

  Hannah has stiffened in her lover’s arms, hearing this. Quickly Y.K. adds that an angry husband, a husband who feels that he has been “wronged,” can be a vengeful adversary.

  “Believe me, Hannah. You don’t want to provoke him.”

  “But if we want to be together …”

  “We will be together. Soon.”

  Hannah supposes, Y.K. is simply being honest. She hasn’t wanted to think that Wes might be hiding money from her as (she knows) other husbands of her acquaintance have hidden money from their wives prior to divorce. But she would have no way of knowing.

  What had Marlene Reddick said—We have no idea what they really do. Our husbands.

  She thinks of Wes’s laughter at the hospital fundraiser. Women teetering on high heels to kiss his cheek, hug him in greeting. Pressing too pointedly their breasts against him.

  She thinks of Wes in their bed that night pushing away her poor groping hand, that had wanted only the warmth of touch. As a lonely creature, a dog perhaps, might hope for a kindly if fleeting touch from its master but is rudely pushed off.

  She hates Wes, he has so wounded her. He has so insulted her without troubling to realize it.

  Her only happiness is with her lover. Only when they can be together.

  Hannah wipes at her eyes. Hannah is determined not to cry, she recalls Joker Daddy forbidding tears. Much better results, Joker Daddy has said, from laughing.

  As long as she is married to Wes, Hannah tells Y.K., she can’t be with him. She can’t live with him. She can’t take the children to live with him. It isn’t possible, not in the world she inhabits.

  Y.K agrees, gently he caresses the nape of Hannah’s neck, pleasantly warm beneath her hair, pressing against Y.K.’s shoulder.

  “But not divorce, darling. Not just yet. Sometimes marriages end when it’s time for an ending.”

  Hannah has no idea what this means. Hannah waits for Y.K. to tell her.

  “Things happen to people,” Y.K. says matter-of-factly. “Within marriages there are illnesses, accidents. There are deaths, inheritances. How much is Wes insured for?—I’m just curious.”

  Insured? Hannah isn’t sure she is hearing what (it seems) she is hearing.

  In fact, Hannah doesn’t know how much Wes’s life insurance is. She may have been told but she has forgotten, as she tends to forget such matters. Five hundred thousand dollars? One million dollars? Surely less than that? Wes’s finances are so complicated, he has so many investments, Hannah has no idea what his estate might be worth.

  He’s a young husband, not yet forty-five. They are a young couple. No reason to be thinking about wills, estates, inheritances at this time in their lives.

  Though in fact, both Wes and Hannah have made out wills, soon after Katya was born. Just to be cautious.

  He means, Wes might die. Is that what he means?

  We could marry, then.

  Hannah has begun shivering almost convulsively. Y.K. gathers her in his arms, to warm her.

  “Darling, don’t be upset. Don’t think of it now. Our love will endure secrecy—it has blossomed in secrecy. No one has to know yet. Your children can meet me in secret, we’ll do that soon. But your husband—no. When it’s the right time for me to meet your husband, that will be arranged.”

  Soon then they begin (again) to make love. Gently at first, like lovers in a shared dream not wanting to dispel the dream.

  By degrees, Y.K. is more forceful. Hannah feels herself overwhelmed, confused. All that she can do is grip the man in her arms—try to grip him in her arms. She is not so strong as she has imagined, the man could snap her wrists if he wishes. His weight upon her is massive. His weight upon her is a god’s weight pressing upon a mortal being.

  Hannah’s rib cage feels crushed, she is having difficulty breathing. Yet still she is suffused with joy, hope. It is just ahead, not far ahead, she can glimpse it—all that she yearns for. The high-ceilinged white-walled room is saturated with light, she must narrow her eyes against such light. She wonders if it is the light shone into the eye of the afflicted to determine if the brain is alert and alive, the field of vision alert and alive.

  Love love love love you.

  Her brain is awash with dreams. Her brain is deprived of oxygen, she cannot draw air fully into her lungs. Her life seems to be flashing before her, inside her like a bright tattered ribbon, a Möbius strip of a ribbon, endless. The helpless writhing begins. Muscular writhing like a snake, excruciating sensation in the pit of her belly near-unbearable as if she is trying to squeeze out of her very skin as a snake might do. Impaled upon the man, the rapid compulsive motions of the man, his name unknown to her, forgotten, she is unable even to scream. Pitch-blackness rises suddenly to envelop her. He has scooped out her brains with his jubilant claw hands, all that is Hannah is annihilated.

  Fairy Tale

  When it’s the right time for me to meet your husband, that will be arranged.

  These words, disembodied, like the lyrics of a song whose music has faded, echo in Hannah’s mind.

  Reminding her of the old fairy tales, told to her when she’d been a child and unable yet to read or to think for herself. A comfort, a solace. Once upon a time. Happily ever after.

  Seemingly, no human agency is involved. Hannah is not involved. Whatever will be, will be arranged.

  Home Invasion

  Like a wildfire in a season of drought the news spreads rapidly among Bloomfield Hills, Far Hills, Birmingham.

  Hannah is stunned, speechless. Through the pounding of blood in her ears she has not fully heard what her friend has been telling her, calling in the late morning of a weekday near the end of October.

  Terrible, tragic news: Christina and Harold Rusch have been found murdered in their house on Balmoral Drive in what police are calling a home invasion.

  Hannah clutches the receiver against her ear listening in disbelief as her friend continues breathlessly: The bodies were discovered early that morning when a contractor arrived at the house for an appointment with Harold Rusch and no one answered the door, the news is just breaking on radio and TV, nothing more seems to be known, no idea who murdered them but it’s presumed to be a robbery, there’s a police alert advising residents in the vicinity to lock their doors and windows, report anyone or anything unusual …

  Hannah feels weak, light-headed. She has heard only a fraction of Miriam’s story but does not want to hear more.

  Quickly interrupting Miriam, thanking her, and hanging up.

  Murdered? Home invasion?

  Hannah’s friend, Christina Rusch?

  It’s a windy autumn day. Cold blue sky, clouds like blown froth. The noise of the wind in the tall trees surrounding the house is confused with the sound of blood pounding in Hannah’s ears, a threat of vertigo.

  Hannah has just returned from driving the children to school. First thing she hears, stepping into the house from the garage, a ringing phone, Ismelda’s voice uplifted—Mrs. Jarrett, ma’am? Phone for you.

  Icy-palmed, in that instant. Steeling herself for Y.K.’s deep-chested voice (for which she isn’t prepared at this hour: their plan was for Hannah to call her lover at a later time) and determined not to betray any emotion that the sharp-eyed little nanny might detect.

  As Ismelda is regarding her employer now with concerned eyes.

  “Ma’am? Is something wrong?”

  Hannah shakes her head no. Can’t talk, not right now.

  Retreating, out of the kitchen. Could not have said if her rapid heartbeat is in response to the (terrible, unfathomable) news or to the blunt fact of the phone ringing, the possibility that her lover was calling her at this hour.

  Within a few minutes the phone rings again, and again Ismelda summons Hannah to the phone, no choice since it’s Wes calling from his office, excited, vehement, Wes is certain that this is a deliberate murder of a top GM executive, a “high-profile” white man, meant to send a message, could be Black Panthers, Nation of Islam, Marxist anarchists, whatever they call themselves, no accident they targeted Harold Rusch for a home invasion.

  Weakly Hannah murmurs yes, yes of course as Wes instructs her to lock all the doors and windows, double-check the door to the garage, make sure the garage door is down, don’t answer the door if someone rings and don’t let Ismelda answer, don’t let anyone in, don’t leave the house.

  It’s an “emergency situation” in the northern suburbs of Detroit, Wes isn’t the only person who believes this.

  Could be the start of the race war that’s been threatened.

  Both sides, theirs and ours. First Babysitter killing white children, now Black Panthers, or whoever, killing auto executives …

  Wes has decided to take the rest of the day off. It’s being said that there might be other, coordinated attacks on residential homes and businesses in the suburbs. Martial law may be declared by the governor, soon. There may be police barricades in the streets, the National Guard may be called as it was in 1967. He will pick up the children at school on his way home.

  Hannah protests: That will be upsetting to the children. They will see Daddy, they will be frightened. Since Daddy never picks them up they will know that something is wrong.

  But Wes insists. By the time they arrive home, God knows what might have happened. In 1967 there were fires in the inner city, gunshots in the streets, snipers on top of buildings, looting, squad cars overturned and set afire, pandemonium but at least not beyond the Detroit city limits, confined to their territory. But now they are invading the suburbs, into our territory.

  “What did I tell you, Hannah! It’s a damned good thing that we are armed.”

  Weak-kneed Hannah finds herself on the sofa in the TV room. Can’t bring herself to turn on the TV. A pulse has begun to beat dangerously in her head.

  Trying to comprehend: Christina Rusch murdered.

  Both the Rusches, murdered.

  There has never been a home invasion in Far Hills, Hannah is sure. She has never heard of such a thing. Invasion is a word incompatible with home.

  Soon after, the phone rings again. But Hannah instructs Ismelda to say that she isn’t home, she will call back.

  I can’t, I’m so sorry. Can’t talk about it to anyone. Christina was a friend of mine—a new friend … It’s unbelievable that I will never see her again.

  Recalling how by chance they’d met in Neiman Marcus, and Hannah helped Christina with her packages, placing them in the back of the car. And the son behind the wheel she’d mistaken at first for a chauffeur, what was his name: Bernard.

  Hannah shudders, recalling. How rude Bernard had been to his own mother, as well as to Hannah. Steely eyes, sallow acne-scarred skin, shellacked-looking mustache, weak but defiant chin. She’d mistaken the baseball cap pulled low over his forehead for a chauffeur’s cap at first.

  An obscene name, he’d called her. Looked at her with loathing. Can’t recall how this could have happened, in Christina’s presence. Yet …

  Hannah remembers: It hadn’t been in Christina’s presence. She’d seen this man in the hotel corridor outside Y.K.’s room. Closely he’d passed behind her, she had not noticed him as she’d stepped back and collided with him, he’d recoiled from her as if in loathing and called her cunt.

  That particular sort of visceral loathing in the male, for the female. Hannah had felt it, leaving her defenseless.

  At the time she’d forgotten the incident immediately. Just an accident. Sheer chance. No meaning. The man with the ice-pick eyes, ridiculous mustache, baseball cap—no one Hannah knew, then.

  “Hannah! I have to speak with you.”

  Hoping to ward off the clamorous pain of a migraine Hannah has taken her medication, is lying in the darkened bedroom with a cloth soaked in cold water over her eyes when Wes bursts into the room. He is agitated, excited. Telling of rumors of planned attacks on “high-profile, white” businessmen, a rumor of martial law, National Guard forming a buffer between the suburbs and the city of Detroit, stationed for miles along Eight Mile Road. Rumors of a race war.