In his dreams Rice Norris is purchasing pianos. It\u2019s been two nights in a row, and Rice doesn\u2019t even know how to play. He never plunked through \u201cChopsticks\u201d as a kid or sat through a single lesson, but as of this morning, early, before the alarm, he has a baby grand and an upright, and he\u2019s out $500. The grand he acquired at an auction. It took only one bid. The upright he bought from a friend, a woman he hasn\u2019t seen for years.<\/p>\n
The auction dream came this morning, reminding him of yesterday\u2019s. He\u2019d not thought of it in 24 hours, but then the gavel clacked. The man at the podium said, \u201cSold,\u201d and Rice realized, as if it had slipped his mind, that he\u2019d just bought a piano. It was in his living room, forcing the sofa and chairs and the coffee table to the walls. What he really needed was a lamp, or how would he ever read music?<\/p>\n
He opened his eyes \u2014 quickly, as if hearing his name \u2014 and stared straight at his alarm clock. It made no sense at first. It looked like a small geometry problem, a white disc displaying an angle. One leg was shorter than the other. The hands were black lines poking into space.<\/p>\n
He felt his dreams scumbling back where they came from. They dissolved. He remembered that they\u2019d been there, and then they were gone.<\/p>\n
It felt like being tricked.<\/p>\n
\n<\/p>\n
Rice Norris is a big man. People he\u2019s just met \u2014 men, anyway \u2014 feel comfortable calling him Big Guy. A panhandler to whom he gave a quarter twice a day used to sing, \u201cBig Guy, my man,\u201d and snap his fingers three times before opening his yellowed palm for the coin Rice pressed there with one finger, like pushing a button. This brought a quick \u201cI thank you,\u201d and a spin like a back-up singer\u2019s. Rice always smiled because for 50 cents a day he received this one moment of good cheer. It was an act, of course, but an act someone bothered to put on. \u201cBig Guy, my man\u201d sounded affectionate. It wasn\u2019t a total stranger asking permission to acknowledge his size.<\/p>\n
The panhandler\u2019s been gone for two or three years. Rice isn\u2019t sure when he noticed the man\u2019s absence. It just occurred to him as he waited on a light. It\u2019s five blocks to the cheap lot where he parks his car. En route is a strip joint where he sees women rougher than he\u2019ll ever be strolling in for work. The older ones are bored. Unruly customers are the least of their worries. The hardness is in the rest of their lives. The men entering at this hour are the middle-management guys sneaking out early or construction workers or Little League coaches stopping on their way home. It\u2019s still daylight, because Rice himself gets off at four. He walks past and tries to peer in if the door is swinging, but it\u2019s dark inside even without the bouncer blocking the view. The wall thumps as Rice passes. He can\u2019t imagine holding a clear thought in the midst of that noise. He assumes that lights are flashing, too. It seems like a guaranteed headache.<\/p>\n
The younger women coming in, some walking, some unloaded at the curb from beat-up cars or creaking pickups, look as hurried and uncomfortable making their entrances as he thinks he\u2019d be as a customer. He watches their fear and distaste and their anger and keeps walking.<\/p>\n
It used to be that 30 paces down he would hear \u201cBig Guy, my man,\u201d and he would grin, but he doesn\u2019t anymore. One day he realized he\u2019d got all the way to the light without a reason to stop thinking about the thin girl with the big, big breasts and the purple knot the size of a grapefruit on her face. And he\u2019d been doing it for days, maybe even a month, without anyone, afterward, calling his name.<\/p>\n
\n<\/p>\n
It is a pleasant day, a bit overcast with no real threat of rain. Rice is relaxed making the walk to work. At this hour much of the city is awake but not quite stirring. Lights are on, and there is traffic, but the buses aren\u2019t filled and office buildings still look dormant. Only a few necessary personnel and the early bird workaholics are at their desks. Other people are pouring down coffee at restaurants or buying papers from the twins at the newsstand or, like Rice, breathing the cool morning air and admiring the fact of another sunrise.<\/p>\n
Or not. He knows there are people stewing in miseries that make them wish they were dead. Or simply gone. His ex-wife picked that approach. She left town. Flat out disappeared, but for a year or two he used to see her. She puttered around the city. He\u2019d see her at movies with a man he didn\u2019t know, a different man every time who never seemed her type, but then neither did she. Her hair stuck out like fins or curled close to her scalp, and her clothes looked borrowed from people she\u2019d never met. He couldn\u2019t imagine that woman on his arm, or what she ever saw in him. They were strangers who\u2019d somehow fooled themselves for being young. Life was supposed to work that way. This was when you did all that.<\/p>\n
Rice was startled by their sex. She\u2019d turn quick and strong and impatient. He was too slow. He was sleepwalking, she said. She\u2019d slap at him. He felt dead still inside his stinging flesh. She wrenched him closer or jammed herself against him, and he knelt or lay or stood baffled by her strength. She was right, it seemed. He was sleepwalking, or maybe she was and he was the one awake watching a person in a trance. She ground through love like a routine made up that very moment. Her teeth clenched in concentration, and she shuddered to a stop. Rice was equipment she gripped and set aside, and by morning he found bruises the size of coins, some debt he sensed he owed her.<\/p>\n
Melissa took that life with her when she left, for which Rice now is grateful. It is a relief it took a while to recognize.<\/p>\n
He isn\u2019t sure what he wanted then, but it might have been as simple as love.<\/p>\n
For Melissa, that was one item only on a list which itself changed almost daily. Rice knows a list is not the best conception. It\u2019s too methodical. In those days nothing happened point by point, but he used to find sheets of paper with her plans for the day or sometimes the next two hours: laundry, lunch, bathroom, Rice.<\/p>\n
There he was, something else to do.<\/p>\n
She never wrote them in his sight, but he found the lists so often he thought they were intended as code. Behind the cinnamon or the deodorant or balled up beneath the couch were scraps with her handwriting. He should find them, perhaps, and know the secrets of her heart.<\/p>\n
Except he would throw them away, and they were never mentioned.<\/p>\n
\n<\/p>\n
She was talking to herself. It didn\u2019t matter if he overheard.<\/p>\n
Rice remembers his marriage as if he\u2019s been told about it. The anecdotes aren\u2019t quite his own. Moments are vivid. Whole years have vanished.<\/p>\n
He was thin. He lost weight without thinking. His job was physical. He delivered furniture and installed it. Days and days he spent in office buildings without lunch. Secretaries heated soup and nibbled crackers. He assembled credenzas and desks. When he got home he was exhausted but didn\u2019t care to eat. It was too much work. A beer wasn\u2019t bad, but that was it. He\u2019d fall asleep and in the morning pour most of it down the sink.<\/p>\n
The mirror showed a stick man in coveralls. The fabric hung off his ribs. In wind it pulled like a sail.<\/p>\n
His face was someone else\u2019s, someone tired, with shadows cupped beneath his eyes.<\/p>\n
\n<\/p>\n
\u201cHey, Big Guy.\u201d<\/p>\n
Every morning it is the same. Lonnie, who has not bought a new tie in 15 years, throws a few feints and shadow punches. Some of them graze Rice\u2019s arm. Lonnie has come up from circulation for his fifth cup of coffee. Rice is picking powdered sugar doughnuts and a cup of yogurt. The doughnuts will go in his mouth whole, and the yogurt will last him till lunch.<\/p>\n
Both men spend a lot of time on the phone. Lonnie takes irate calls from customers whose papers have not landed on the porch. The most angry customers are his responsibility, the ones who will not be placated by assurances from underlings. If need be, Lonnie will drive a paper to the address, but his crews are good. He trains them himself, and even during the paperboy murders most deliveries were on time. He is proud of that accomplishment and has management\u2019s letter of commendation framed on his cork panel wall. It\u2019s beside the fading city map stuck with pins and above the green steel file cabinets. Lonnie seems to glance at it often and always smiles before he speaks. And then again after.<\/p>\n
Rice typed the obits on the paperboys, but in cases like that he knows virtually nobody reads the notices. The stories are splashed all over page one. People watch them on TV. He hardly needed the mortuaries\u2019 calls. They provided confirmation more than data. The public record machine did its work.<\/p>\n
Rice is a relay switch. News comes in. He shunts it out.<\/p>\n
Lonnie makes sure it arrives at front steps, paper boxes, stores, and gas stations to the western border and beyond. Satellite printers outstate have made his job easier but less satisfying. His excitement in bad weather was a kind of joy. Rice listened to stories of trucks swallowed by snowdrifts and kept expecting Lonnie to say he\u2019d hired dog sleds. Lonnie himself might be crying \u201cMush!\u201d Nowadays trucks radiate from two or three hubs. They don\u2019t have to snake across the state from the loading docks downstairs, so Lonnie\u2019s frenzy for logistics is exercised in organizing events.<\/p>\n
\u201cHey, Big Guy,\u201d he says. \u201cI haven\u2019t seen your picnic memo.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI keep forgetting to fill it out,\u201d Rice says. He thinks it\u2019s in the trash. It\u2019s probably already shredded.<\/p>\n
\u201cLots of fun,\u201d says Lonnie. \u201cYou won\u2019t want to miss it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI probably will,\u201d says Rice.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m not counting you out till I see it on paper,\u201d says Lonnie. His paper cup of coffee is shaking in his hand. Rice steps back, just in case, as Lonnie says, \u201cThere\u2019s that new girl in advertising. She\u2019s signed up for volleyball.\u201d<\/p>\n
Rice picks up a plastic spoon and a napkin. Lonnie is always telling him about women. Rice wishes he could make clear his lack of interest, but he thinks Lonnie would never understand. At best, he\u2019d misinterpret. So Rice says, \u201cI\u2019ll think about it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThere you go, Big Guy.\u201d He reaches up to punch at Rice\u2019s shoulder and happens to see his watch. \u201cDuty calls,\u201d he says. \u201cSend in that memo.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cVolleyball,\u201d says Rice.<\/p>\n
\u201cIn a bikini, I bet.\u201d Lonnie smiles with his mouth wide open, letting Rice see his lumpy teeth, and then he scurries back downstairs.<\/p>\n
\n<\/p>\n
And Lonnie, somehow, stays married. His 20th anniversary was just a year or two ago. Rice remembers the hoopla. Lonnie\u2019s wife sent a singing telegram, and Rice watched Lonnie hug the woman in her little red cap and scarlet skirt as if an engagement had been announced. She managed to position a balloon between them. It made a useful buffer. Rice caught her eye and winked. She actually winked back and let Lonnie go as the lunchroom joined in. \u201cHappy anniversary to you,\u201d people sang and draped him with crepe paper ribbons.<\/p>\n
On Lonnie\u2019s desk are pictures of his wife. The expression on her face never changes. Candid shots and posed photos alike show the same crooked smile that might just as easily be taken for a sneer or a grimace. They\u2019re such perfect replicas they look like icons. Rice imagines her washing dishes, lying in bed, even staring out the window with that steady gaze and suspects that Lonnie doesn\u2019t see it at all. It\u2019s as if they view two separate people. Rice hasn\u2019t even spoken to her, but he is sure she\u2019d recognize him as sympathetic. They both would roll their eyes at Lonnie and cluck together at his antics. They would share a deep silence, the stillness of people long accustomed to holding their tongues.<\/p>\n
\n<\/p>\n
Rice sits at his desk, hooks on his headpiece, and begins taking calls. The day starts slowly, with a couple of dead letters. These are messages in memoriam, Item 3 of the Deaths and Funerals section. The first is so long that he eats two doughnuts without having to speak. His typing is fast, and Belle, the woman whose voice fills his head, reads a message that sounds like a Christmas letter. Her husband is dead three years ago today, and Rice thinks that if there\u2019s an afterlife the man must already know this stuff. Surely the departed are not reading the paper to catch up on the accomplishments of their children and grandchildren. Belle runs through a list of colleges and trophies and a wrap-up on the weather, so much like that sadly remembered day, then mentions shed tears and the reunion to come, when they will be a complete and happy family once again and forever. It sounds like she\u2019s bringing potato salad. Rice reads the message back, correcting spellings on the screen, and promises the notice will appear in four days.<\/p>\n
She hangs up happy, and he takes another call. It\u2019s routine. Then a funeral home calls with the death of a banker, a once big name retired 25 years. He takes the information and calls it over to news side. They will want to run a squib.<\/p>\n
The next call is Del Hehnke of Hehnke & Sons.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe\u2019ve got an ugly one,\u201d he says. \u201cAttorney\u2019s wife. Suicide. Socially prominent. She\u2019s made his life a mess.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHow about the living room?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cVery neat and tidy. Pills and liquor, nothing quicker. Didn\u2019t even need to pump her stomach. She was already gone. He came home and found her.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSounds like she meant it,\u201d Rice says.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe had the doses right. It wasn\u2019t a cry for help. And get this,\u201d says Del, \u201che\u2019s insisting on an open casket. Suicides, usually, that\u2019s the last thing they want.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cKeeping up appearances,\u201d says Rice.<\/p>\n
\u201cI think very much so. His \u2018in lieu of flowers\u2019 is the American Lung Association. I don\u2019t think it\u2019s fooling anybody. He\u2019s hovering around, very fussy. I came up here just to hide.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou need another line of work, Del.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI inherited this. It\u2019s cushy.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe lap of luxury,\u201d says Rice. \u201cWhat\u2019s the drill?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOkay, ready? Ross, Alice, 67 years,\u201d and Del Hehnke recites at a speed perfect for typing.<\/p>\n
Rice Norris hesitates, then continues without saying a word because he knows most of these facts and does not need to check spellings for people to whom he used to be related.<\/p>\n
Melissa still goes by Ross, and she\u2019s living in Kentucky, a place he can\u2019t imagine. It\u2019s as good as the end of the world. It cancels her somehow. He already can\u2019t remember her face. He remembers three freckles on her collarbone and that her eyes are blue, but that\u2019s a fact, something memorized even then so he could answer questions from clerks who thought it cute a man went shopping for his wife. He could rattle off sizes and favorite colors, anything to keep the salesladies charmed, but now he can\u2019t recall her voice or face or even her sense of humor.<\/p>\n
Instead he sees her mother standing in the kitchen with sherry in a glass, for my nerves<\/i>, she always said, just one for my nerves<\/i>. It was well-past midnight, and she was pouring one for him. Melissa was upstairs, asleep, or throwing up, the truth be known, from alcohol this time. It was too early for the food. He didn\u2019t know yet he\u2019d find candy bars and cookies in every corner of the house. He was with her mother, the two of them the only upright adults in a house with the dishwasher running to be ready by breakfast and a single light glowing over the kitchen sink. Rice remembers seeing his reflection on the window\u2019s black glass. He was a wraith made of light. Alice handed him a glass and topped off her own, and she asked him, \u201cWhat makes you think you\u2019re going to be happy married to my daughter?\u201d<\/p>\n
She was sloshed and staring at him with all the pity he had ever seen. She wanted him to run away that night not for Melissa\u2019s sake but his own. He didn\u2019t, of course, but seeing now the facts of her death typed on a screen and his own face faint against the glass, Rices realizes it is Alice he misses from that marriage. She is the only soul.<\/p>\n
The one he must imagine dead.<\/p>\n
He should have spoken to her when it ended, but he felt he\u2019d lost the privilege. He wasn\u2019t entitled to the confidence.<\/p>\n
They never spoke another word, and now their silence is the one fact left.<\/p>\n
\n<\/p>\n
Hutton Ross enjoyed the nickname Hut. Rice believed from the start he\u2019d conferred it on himself. It made him feel like one of the boys, or let him act like one, if he wanted, if it might be an advantage. Rice hated his crushing handshake the first time they met, that and the smirk on his face, which dared the world to be worth his time. And some aspects were, if they confirmed his good taste and largess and expansiveness and wit. Anything less was pending. He was reserving judgment.<\/p>\n
That was his message to the world, especially those close enough to hear it often. Those for whom his beneficence was expected to be expected, as a gift, as the grace he granted. Or might.<\/p>\n
\n<\/p>\n
There were the usual talks. Rice\u2019s family, Rice\u2019s plans, Rice\u2019s prospects, which ought to have been good. Advertising, PR, that sort of thing. The future was vague, but he had an idea. Trucks and furniture weren\u2019t his whole goal for life. He thought working his way through college showed gumption.<\/p>\n
Somehow it didn\u2019t register with Hut. He\u2019d ask a question and look distracted, as if hearing someone summarize a movie he couldn\u2019t find less interesting.<\/p>\n
Only one remark brought him into the room. Rice sneezed and complained about the ragweed.<\/p>\n
\u201cHay fever!\u201d Hut bellowed and came in from the kitchen. A glass of bourbon clinked in his hand. He wore a madras shirt and khaki pants, and his hair was combed straight back and stiff. It was three in the afternoon. \u201cHay fever,\u201d he repeated. \u201cThat\u2019s a hell of a note to stir into the gene pool. Mel?\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
Melissa pointed Rice toward a trash can for the Kleenex he\u2019d just used. \u201cYes, Daddy?\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
\u201cMel, I thought you were better trained. I thought you were screening these boys.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSome things just slip through, Daddy.\u201d She waggled her eyebrows and Rice felt himself blush.<\/p>\n
Hut\u2019s hand without the glass rubbed and scratched against his stomach. \u201cSlipping in\u2019s one thing,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019m more worried what follows in its wake.\u201d He sipped his bourbon and started moving. \u201cBut time will tell. It\u2019s theoretically possible to hit the jackpot. Sometimes you must remind yourself. Eh?\u201d<\/p>\n
And from the next room he said, \u201cAchoo.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHutton,\u201d Alice said, but under her breath.<\/p>\n
Melissa asked, \u201cAnyone want ice cream?\u201d<\/p>\n
\n<\/p>\n
\u201cMel?\u201d said Rice.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe\u2019s called me that since I was 6. Earlier, really. I think he wanted a boy.\u201d<\/p>\n
Rice trailed a hand down Melissa\u2019s stomach and pressed against her abdomen. He cupped its flesh and squeezed. He felt himself tighten. \u201cHe must have been disappointed,\u201d Rice said and kissed each perfect freckle.<\/p>\n
\u201cNot always,\u201d Melissa said. Her hand caught his and stopped it. Held it. Held it still.<\/p>\n
When he awoke her back was to him. Her fingers were guides. \u201cHere,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
Rice shifted. His hips rolled.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d she said. \u201cHere.\u201d Her hand was ungiving. \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n
\n<\/p>\n
Del Hehnke\u2019s last words on the phone stay with Rice all morning.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis guy must be drunk. Look, I\u2019ve gotta go. The husband\u2019s making noises.\u201d<\/p>\n
The remark so nearly echoes Alice that Rice is surprised by what he remembers, by what he\u2019s not considered for 20 years.<\/p>\n
\u201cHut\u2019s a drunk,\u201d she told him once. \u201cHe makes his noises. We applaud them. The show goes on.\u201d She splashed more in both their glasses. \u201cCheers,\u201d she said. \u201cEveryone\u2019s happy.\u201d<\/p>\n
Rice never saw the man in public without the calm of an emperor.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s just a matter of timing,\u201d Alice said. \u201cThose three more drinks at home make all the difference. He\u2019s never sloppy. He\u2019s just insistent.\u201d She stared at her own black ghost in the window. \u201cHe dislikes women over the age of 30. It doesn\u2019t matter how thin you are.\u201d She smiled. \u201cI can fit in my wedding dress anyway. That\u2019s one fact I do control.\u201d She turned to Rice and said, \u201cYou are such a sweet boy. I don\u2019t mean to ramble. It\u2019s late or I would play some Chopin. That always puts me in a better mood.\u201d<\/p>\n
\n<\/p>\n
Rice, in the lunchroom, does not feel like eating. He watches Lonnie, who is off duty but tirelessly talking up the picnic. He flits from table to table and makes himself at home. People chat and joke back. He is goofy and earnest and absolutely dedicated to making you feel welcome. It\u2019s surprising he doesn\u2019t work in sales.<\/p>\n
Rice wonders how many of the women here have spent their time throwing up.<\/p>\n
When he first discovered Melissa, he thought she was actually sick. He\u2019d come home later than usual but earlier than expected because half the units were missing shelves. Delivery was made with installation to follow. He got off at seven instead of nine and brought a pizza home to celebrate, a nice surprise, but Melissa was nowhere to be seen until he got to the bathroom, where she crouched in a dingy gray bra and panties over the toilet.<\/p>\n
\u201cAre you okay?\u201d he asked. \u201cAre you sick?\u201d He tried to hold her forehead and let her rest it in his hand.<\/p>\n
She sprang away, swatting and crying No<\/i> and Yes<\/i> and No<\/i> and scrambling into the tub. \u201cGo away, just go away.\u201d She sobbed and flattened her face against the cold tile wall. Pale yellow water shined on her chin, and she swiped one hand in the air as if erasing the sight of him. And so he left, and in an hour she came out and never said a word.<\/p>\n
Some nights he woke to hear her retching. He lay in bed wanting to cry, and sometimes managing, while she turned her stomach inside out and emptied it of the smallest scrap. Or he\u2019d hear her wolfing ice cream, half a gallon in the middle of the night, and go to throw it up. He\u2019d hear her fingers in her throat, and it would start again, the quick, convulsive spurts, the push to finish, and her return to bed.<\/p>\n
His pretense of sleep.<\/p>\n
He was so thin then and hardly ever slept.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re wasting away,\u201d she told him. \u201cWhy don\u2019t you ever eat?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt doesn\u2019t occur to me,\u201d he said. \u201cI get too busy.\u201d<\/p>\n
She slapped him in the face. \u201cYou\u2019re doing it on purpose. I hate you. I hate everything you do.\u201d<\/p>\n
\n<\/p>\n
Rice sees women hunched over salads and picking dry tuna from cans. If they are vomiting after midnight or hiding candy bars behind the mixing bowls or canisters of flour, they show no sign. But some surely are. This very newspaper tells him so. A \u201cNew Findings\u201d story appears every several months. It\u2019s on TV and in the magazines. It\u2019s now a public secret life.<\/p>\n
Back then it was quick, more furtive than sex. She was throwing up. She did it in hiding, deliberately, and eating was just as secret.<\/p>\n
She foraged and snatched the food up to her lips. She listened like an animal chewing quickly in the dark. Every day was judged by what she had contained.<\/p>\n
\n<\/p>\n
\u201cMy M.R.S. degree,\u201d said Alice. \u201cThat was my goal in college. And I got it, too. Can I pour you another?\u201d<\/p>\n
\n<\/p>\n
\u201cYou take care of my daughter,\u201d Hut told him, but it sounded like a threat. They were shaking hands, with Rice held close. Hut\u2019s smile was fixed for the photographers.<\/p>\n
\n<\/p>\n
Melissa spent half the day in tears. Rice remembers that much. She sobbed and hugged her father at every turn. Hut drew her in. He enclosed her, pressed her head against his chest, and stood, smiling, for all the world to see.<\/p>\n
\n<\/p>\n
Rice walked the wedding\u2019s outskirts. He posed when it was called for. He shook hands and acted happy. He told about his plans. People nodded and patted his shoulder.<\/p>\n
They murmured, \u201cGood luck.\u201d<\/p>\n
He could have been anyone.<\/p>\n
\n<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s long past time she left,\u201d said Alice. She kissed his cheek and whispered, \u201cOh, Rice, I hope you\u2019re not mistaken.\u201d<\/p>\n
A camera flashed.<\/p>\n
\n<\/p>\n
Hut Ross hugs his daughter. Hut Ross beams at Mel. He offers toasts and blessings. It is a festival.<\/p>\n
Hut Ross presides.<\/p>\n
\n<\/p>\n
In the photos Alice is not much older than Rice is now. He realizes this by doing the arithmetic. The pictures themselves are gone. Melissa took them, like evidence he has to reconstruct.<\/p>\n
Rice wonders how he\u2019s been remembered, what blame he\u2019s been assigned.<\/p>\n
If any. He may merely be a shadow. It\u2019s been 20 years. He might be little more than recollection, an experiment that failed.<\/p>\n
A pivot. A hinge. The device Melissa needed to think that she had left.<\/p>\n
To believe it possible she could escape the country of that king.<\/p>\n
\n<\/p>\n
Lonnie leaves the table of an admittedly beautiful woman and makes hubba-hubba faces on his way to visit Rice. That\u2019s her<\/i>, he mouths, the girl from advertising<\/i>. He glows like the man responsible, as if she\u2019s gorgeous because he\u2019s commanded it.<\/p>\n
Behind his back she looks not annoyed but befuddled. She catches Rice\u2019s eye. He shoots a glance at Lonnie, and then he winks, tossing in the smallest shrug.<\/p>\n
She does not return the favor. She stares so long at him that Rice thinks he must look like just another lug. And bigger than most, which would only make it worse. At least he is not standing. Rice offers a smile and hopes it\u2019s not assumed to be a leer.<\/p>\n
\u201cHey, Big Guy.\u201d Lonnie scrapes a chair away from the table and drops into it. His teeth flash. \u201cShe\u2019s the one,\u201d he rasps. His voice is like a scratch of sandpaper. Rice tries to guess if she\u2019s heard from across the room, but Lonnie asks, \u201cHey, where\u2019s your sack of lunch?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t bring a lunch,\u201d Rice says.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, but you buy one. Curly\u2019s burger and fries, double-decker, extra cheese, with 11 packets of ketchup. A milkshake, chocolate or vanilla, alternating every other day, a glass of water, and a fruit pie from Mr. Vend-O. Or a honey bun, if they\u2019re out.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd if it\u2019s not a Curly\u2019s burger,\u201d says Rice, \u201cand so on?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019ve been known to eat a corn dog.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnything else?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat awful sweet-and-sour pork from Wong\u2019s.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat\u2019s wrong with that?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThose guys can\u2019t cook,\u201d says Lonnie. \u201cThat\u2019s grape jelly or something with a little horseradish thrown in.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat sounds horrible.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHooray. Maybe we\u2019re making progress. So, what\u2019s the deal?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat deal?\u201d<\/p>\n
Lonnie\u2019s fingers walk across the table. \u201cYou\u2019ve got a glass of water that\u2019s full to the brim. There\u2019s not even yogurt on your breath.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m not hungry,\u201d Rice says.<\/p>\n
\u201cNext stop, you\u2019re 95 and living with a hundred cats.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ll name them all after you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI didn\u2019t even think you liked me,\u201d Lonnie says. \u201cAll I wanted was your picnic memo.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMy mother-in-law died yesterday.\u201d<\/p>\n
Lonnie looks at Rice\u2019s left hand and says, \u201cI didn\u2019t know you were ever married.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cA long time ago.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWas it expected?\u201d Lonnie asks. \u201cYour mother-in-law?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOnly by her, I think.\u201d Rice imagines Alice with a glass of sherry, opening a book of \u00e9tudes. It\u2019s late afternoon. The light is gray. \u201cProbably nobody else had a clue.\u201d He doesn\u2019t add, We should have<\/i>.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou need to take the day off, Rice. Don\u2019t stay here a minute longer. Okay? I\u2019ll sign you out.\u201d Lonnie slides his chair backward, then waits. He\u2019s braced to stand up.<\/p>\n
\u201cI can do that,\u201d Rice says. \u201cI can do that myself.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cCome on, then. Let\u2019s go.\u201d Lonnie rises gently and offers Rice his hand.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
In his dreams Rice Norris is purchasing pianos. It\u2019s been two nights in a row, and Rice doesn\u2019t even know how to play. He never plunked through \u201cChopsticks\u201d as a kid or sat through a single lesson, but as of this morning, early, before the alarm, he has a baby grand and an upright, and…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-891","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-news"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/googmn.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/891","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/googmn.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/googmn.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/googmn.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/googmn.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=891"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/googmn.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/891\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/googmn.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=891"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/googmn.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=891"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/googmn.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=891"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}