Now, as he makes a couple ofleft-hand turns that bring him ever closer to Iris’s house, he is remembering those mawkish scribblings for the first time in twenty years.
Side-arming that notebook into the river did not mean that from then on he lived in some anguished exile from romance;he was not like a priest who loses his faith and then becomes a drunk or a fornicator.He did not feel bitterness, he did not feel any loss.He simply knew better and it was over.Those feelings were like his milk teeth;his bite was stur-dier after that.And in place ofall that inchoate desire, he went on to other pursuits:public service, respectability, sex, money.His briefchild-ish dream oflove was over, and he went on.He had relationships.He had a life,by which people seemed to mean a certain accumulation ofdays and experience, all mortared into some kind ofshapeless shape by an adult gravitas.He went on to prep school, on to college, on to law school, on to a year traveling on the cheap in Europe, on to a year in Mis-sissippi working for a civil rights lawyer, on to Minneapolis for more public service, where he lived with the daughter ofa blind Norwegian piano tuner, a large, brown-haired girl with creamy skin and enormous eyes, who seemed to him like an old-fashioned dessert, the kind they serve you when you’re too sated to eat another bite, and on to NewYork, to Kate and Ruby, and on and on and on—but had he been walking an ellipse all that time? Because here he was again, not exactly at the spot at which he had written those rhymes twenty years ago, but certainly within shouting distance ofit.Around and around he’d gone, and now it seemed to all be coming to this:that phantom female, that ghostly girl, Darlin’,Baby, all those creatures ofhis longing, all those spirits oflove and desire whom he thought he had exorcised with the power ofplain old common sense, put in their place at the back ofthe class by irony, experience, and practicality, they had survived after all, they had not been cast out, they had merely shrunk back, they had hibernated, and now they are awake, they are swirling around and around, and they have fused into a single woman.
Juniper Street.The fashion ofthe playful flag has arrived.On Iris’s block Daniel counts eleven flags displayed over the entrances, and of these only two are the stars and stripes.The other households seem to be pledging their allegiance to countries ofthe imagination.Flags here de-pict a crow perched on a pumpkin, Dorothy and theTin Man, a cobalt heaven riveted with silver stars, a golden retriever, a pair ofballet slip-pers.It’s after ten on a pretty morning but no one is on the street, a fact for which Daniel is grateful, since he is now driving so slowly that he may as well be parked in the middle ofthe road.
Iris’sVolvo is no longer in their driveway and his mind races as he tries to assign meaning to this fact.One thing he knows for sure:it means they are no longer in bed together—at least one ofthem is out ofthe house.Perhaps Iris has gone to run some errands, in which case Daniel might run into her ifhe drives quickly over to Broadway.Or maybe she’s gone to the campus, or across the river to one ofthe malls.Or maybe it’s Hampton who’s gone, in which case Iris is right there in the house.
He reminds himself not to suddenly introduce a new aspect to the plan; he told himself that all he would do is drive by her house and move on.
Now he is casting about for reasons he might knock on her door, and he forces himself to ignore every spontaneous scenario and to stick with the original plan.
He has seen the house.Enough.Maybe he will return in an hour or so to see ifthe car has returned.Maybe there will be other signs oflife, little changes, clues from which he can concoct a plausible narrative of their day.He steps on the gas pedal, bringing the speed ofhis car up to fifteen, but as he pulls away from the house he is gripped by the idea that Iris is in there, and that all that separates them is fifteen paces and a knock on the door.And though he has promised himself no unplanned actions, he does add one thing to today’s reconnaissance.He dials her number on his cell phone.Yet on the first ring, he feels an overpowering sense ofcreepiness and remorse, and he pushes his thumb against the end call button on his phone with such force that he almost veers into a parked car—an old Mercedes with a bumper sticker that sayscommit randomacts of irrational kindness.
Because he told Kate he was going to do some work, Daniel heads toward his office, for the tiny squirt ofmoral salve it might afford him, though not before driving down Broadway one last time and looking for Iris’s car.He pretends not to see everyone who waves hello to him, and he thinks to himself that ifhe had remembered more clearly all the wav-ing or howdy-doing that goes on in Leyden, he would never have moved back here.Yet to not have moved back here is now unthinkable, a specu-lation that leads to an infinity ofemptiness, like imagining not having been born.The equation is simple.No Leyden = No Iris.Ofcourse, there are a million details oflife and circumstance that had to fall into place to bring him to the spot in which he now finds himself.But in the end it seems to Daniel to come to this:ifhe hadn’t lost that case back in the city, ifhe hadn’t been kicked down the stairs by those three thugs, with their huge hands and reddish eyes, ifhe hadn’t developed the hu-miliating, excoriating fear ofevery dark-skinned stranger he saw on the street, then none ofthis would be happening.
He wonders what Iris will think ofthe story ofhis flight from New York.He wonders ifhe will ever need to tell her.He nervously imagines how it will sound toAfrican-American ears—the panicky white boy packing his bags, quitting his practice, heading for the cornfields and the pastures and the perfect white village with his southern girlfriend and her porcelain daughter in tow.Surely this will have a meaning to Iris somewhat different from the meanings to which he is accustomed, and for no other reason than she is black.He is getting way ahead ofhimself, but he can’t help it.He remembers Kate’s remark about Leroy from the night before:His people came over in chains and mine sat on the porch sipping gin.Something that begins that badly can never end well.So will that be the contest? History in one corner and Love in the other? Fine.Ring the bell.
Let the fight begin.Love,he thinks,will bring history to its knees.
At last, it is Monday, and Daniel is in court, standing in front ofJudge Hoffstetter.On one side ofDaniel stands Rebecca Stefanelli, who most people know by her nickname, Lulu.She is a five-times-divorced, hard-living woman in her early forties, with red hair and a tentative, defensive smile on her face, the smile ofa woman who has had a number ofunkind remarks made at her expense, and who would rather appear in on the joke than be its unwitting target.On the other side ofDaniel stands James Schmidt, a muscular, scrubbed widower who runs a little lawn mower and chain saw repair business out ofhis garage;Rebecca and James had a brief, more or less geographically determined fling a couple ofyears ago and relations between them have been stormy ever since.
Standing next to Schmidt is a barrel-chested, white-haired, flush-faced old lawyer named Montgomery Paisley, in semiretirement but still mak-ing a handsome living representing the company that sold Schmidt his home insurance.Though summer is long past, Paisley is wearing a blue-and-white seersucker suit and light brown shoes.
Rebecca is suing Schmidt for failure to keep his section ofthe public sidewalk clear ofice.She slipped and fell in front ofSchmidt’s house last March, sustaining a concussion, and she claims to have been suffering from debilitating headaches ever since.
Judge Hoffstetter is manifest in his dislike ofLulu Stefanelli.“Miss Stefanelli,”he says,“I’ll thank you not to wear sunglasses in my courtroom.”
“Your Honor,”Daniel is quick to say,“my client is wearing dark glasses on the advice ofher physician, as a way ofwarding offheadaches.”
“This is not a sunny room, Mr.Emerson.Please instruct your client to remove her sunglasses.”
It’s outrageous to Daniel that Hoffstetter is harassing Lulu about her glasses.Hoffstetter used to be a state patrolman inWindsor County;in fact, it was he who gave Daniel his first and only speeding ticket, twenty years ago, when Daniel was seventeen.In those days, Hoffstetter was a hard, fit man, with an accusatory, military bearing, and he was never without his mirrored sunglasses.Now, howeve
r, the judge is fleshy;his eyebrows are a thick tangle ofsilver wire above his professorial half-glasses, his long, porous nose is a ruin ofself-indulgence.
Hoffstetter is silent.He leans back in his creaking chair, taps his fingertips together.He peers at Daniel as ifhe’s about to cite him for con-tempt.But then he sits forward, claps his hands together.
“Okay, you two, chambers.”
“What’s he doing?”Rebecca Stefanelli whispers to Daniel.Her breath has a warm vermouth quality to it and Daniel can only hope Hoffstetter hasn’t gotten a whiffofit.
“Don’t worry,”Daniel says.And when she looks at him questioningly, he adds,“We’re right and they’re wrong and that still means something.”
Montgomery Paisley is fastening the clasp ofhis enormous old briefcase;
he looks as ifhe’s carrying the folders for every case he’s ever tried.He hoists it up and, with his free arm, gestures gallantly for Daniel to go first.
Judge Hoffstetter’s chambers are really just one room, which he has turned into the Judge Hoffstetter Historical Museum, with pictures of himself on every wall, depicting the highlights ofhis life, from high school baseball, to his induction into the state police, to his marriage to Sally Manzardo and their fifteenth wedding anniversary in Barbados, to his late-in-life graduation from Fordham Law School and becoming a county judge.
Hoffstetter sits heavily behind his desk, opens the top drawer and pulls out a cigarette and a little battery-operated fan, to dispel the smoke.
“You’ve got no case, Mr.Emerson,”he says.
”Do you mind ifI sit?”says Paisley.
”You do whatever you want, Monty.You’re walking out ofhere a winner.”
“That’s highly improper, Your Honor,”Daniel says.
”Counselor, Mr.Paisley has three statements from Leyden Hospital emergency room staff, all ofthem stating that when your client came in after having suffered a head injury in front ofSchmidt’s house she was drunk as a skunk.”
This is not the first time Daniel is hearing this.The whole thrust of his case is to dispel the allegations ofStefanelli’s drunkenness.
“Your Honor, the salient fact ofthis case is not my client’s score on a Breathalyzer test, or the alcohol level in her bloodstream—though no such tests were given to her and the allegations ofher being under the influence ofalcohol are completely without proof.The salient fact is that Mr.Schmidt failed—and, in fact, refused—to remove the snow and ice in front ofhis house, thereby creating a hazard.Anyone could have fallen on that treacherous piece ofpavement.”
“But no one did, Daniel,”Hoffstetter says, smiling.“No one but your booze hound ofa client.”
“Your Honor, I really must object—”
“Don’t bother.”Hoffstetter sighs, shakes his head, and continues.“I must say, Mr.Emerson, I never thought I’d see you in my court arguing a case ofsuch little merit.Why did you go to the trouble ofgetting such a prestigious education ifall you’re going to do is practice law ofthe lowest common denominator?”
Is that what this is going to be about?wonders Daniel.That I went to Co-
lumbia and Hoffstetter did law at proletarian Fordham?Yet there is something weirdly sincere in the judge’s question and it finds its way through Daniel’s customary defenses.He is capable offeeling a bit ofchagrin over some ofthe cases he handles, though, frankly, Lulu Stefanelli’s fall is, he thinks, a decent case, unlike a couple ofthe divorces he’s worked on, or the estate work he’s done for a few ofthe local pashas.
Yet, like many lawyers, Daniel looks back at his beginnings and feels that he has fallen more than a little short ofhis initial goals.In law school, Daniel envisioned himself practicing some kind ofpublic service law, though exactly what kind constantly shifted.Children’s rights.Civil rights.
Environmental law.Something that could make the world a little better.
And in order to practice that sort oflaw he had to be in a major city, New York, Washington.His first job out oflaw school was with the doomed Lawyers’Immigrant Defense Society, which lost its funding six months later.From there he went to a private law firm, with its share ofcorporate clients but with a reputation for doing interesting pro bono work—one of the partners had a son in prison in Malaysia on trumped-up drug charges and it resulted in the inflammation ofthe entire firm’s conscience.
“My client deserves some consideration here, Your Honor,”Daniel says softly, indicating with his tone that he’s ready to deal.Lulu would be happy with Schmidt’s insurance company covering her emergency room bills and maybe coming up with ten or fifteen grand for her pain and suffering.
“All this for a few measly bucks?”Hoffstetter shakes his head.“How the mighty have fallen.”
Paisley speaks from the depths ofhis chair.“We’re willing to pay her initial medical costs, Judge.”
“Let’s not encourage her, Monty.She’ll be throwing herselfin front ofcars and diving into empty swimming pools ifwe go along with her little scheme here.”
“Your Honor—”
“Mr.Emerson, I really did expect better things from you.”
But Daniel persists.He knows he’s getting whipsawed by Paisley and Hoffstetter, but in a few minutes he’s able to go back to the courtroom and tell Rebecca Stefanelli that the other side is willing to settle for med-ical expenses plus ten thousand dollars, and she is so thrilled that she hugs him excitedly and kisses him first on the ear and then on the eye.And a few minutes after that, he’s in his car, driving through a cold, pelting rain, on his way north to Leyden, for his next appointment.The mountains on the west side ofthe river are obscured by mist.A stiffwind comes from the northwest;the trees barely sway, they just bend and stay that way.
Daniel is on his way to his office, where he needs to gather some papers before going to his next appointment.He stops at a gas station a couple miles outside ofLeyden.It’s an Exxon station that used to be run by the father ofone ofDaniel’s boyhood friends and is now owned by a couple ofEgyptian brothers.He pumps a tank ofgas into his car and then goes in to get a cup ofcoffee and a shrink-wrapped bagel.The rain lashes the windows ofthe station.There is a display ofheavily scented carved wooden red roses, drenched in some artificial, vaguely roselike scent; the smell mingles with the smells ofthe coffee machine, the wax on the linoleum floor, and the residual aroma ofgasoline.Both ofthe brothers are behind the counter, heavy men in their thirties, with rough skin, dark, wavy hair, and short-sleeved shirts.
Even when his friend’s father owned this station, it was one ofthe few spots in the area where boys and men could find pornographic magazines.
In the past, the magazines had names likeChic,andCheri.Now, the mag-azines are not only more numerous, but their names are more overt, even a little nutty.Juggs,andBeaver,are next toAss TimeandPink andTight.And though there are precious few black people who live in Leyden, this store stocks a wide range ofAfrican-American porn magazines.
Daniel has been eyeing the black porn covers for quite some time, though he has yet to muster the courage to even browse through what’s inside.But today, after getting his coffee and choosing his bagel, he saun-ters over to the magazine rack.He imagines the Egyptians will be watch-ing him, but it’s something he can live with.
Big Black Butt, Brown Sugar, Black Booty…There is something about the stridency ofthese titles that strikes a reluctantly responsive chord in Daniel.He picks up one ofthe more benign titles—Sugar Mama—and opens it up.
He has never slept with a black woman, never seen a black woman undressed.In high school in the hills ofNew Hampshire, he had a crush on a black girl named Carol Johns.They kissed, she pressed her hand against the fly ofhis jeans.But when he tried to touch her breasts, she moved away and said,“Uh-uh,”and then the next day her brother, an am-bitious, bespectacled kid in a blazer, hit Daniel full force in the back of the head with his algebra book.
The women inside the magazine havenoms de porn,like Afreaka, Supremacy, Kenya, and Downtown Sugar Brown.Afreaka is photographed
pulling herselfopen like someone showing an empty wallet.Downtown Sugar Brown has shaved, moist armpit skin that looks like cracked leather, long aqua fingernails, and a barbered crotch greased along the labia.She has hardworking hands, with dark, bunched skin at the knuck-les, a faded butterfly tattoo on her shoulder, long, pendulous breasts, with lusterless coronas.The stretch marks around her hips are like fork marks in brown butter.Daniel feels vaguely sick, reduced, helpless, yet in communion with some reptile selfthat has been waiting for him.He turns the page and Downtown Sugar Brown is joined by another woman—Cydney.They are on their hands and knees on an unmade bed, their long tongues touching.
Suddenly, a hand grabs his shoulder;he feels the scrape ofchin whiskers against his ear, and his head fills with the hoarse, aggressive whisper ofhis assailant.“Whatcha got there, you horny sonofabitch? Going for the dark side?”
It’s Derek Pabst, one ofthe four cops on the Leyden Police Department.Derek and Daniel have been friends since the first grade.Derek was a sturdy kid with an oversized head and the defiant, wayward grin of a boy with a great many siblings and overworked parents.He never did his homework, he rarely passed a test, yet the teachers quietly promoted him at the end ofevery year, with the tacit understanding that his life was hard and that school was finally so unimportant to him that they should all be grateful he was attending at all.He had a wild streak that mes-merized Daniel.Through the course oftheir boyhood, through school days and summers, they were each other’s constant companions.They climbed trees, forded rivers, shot guns, kissed girls.As far as Derek was concerned, they were to this day best friends, though the persistence of their friendship has largely been Derek’s doing.When Daniel was sent off to boarding school, Derek wrote him letters and hitchhiked the hundred miles to sleep on the floor ofDaniel’s dormitory room.When Daniel fi-nally moved back to Leyden, Derek was there to meet the van, with a picnic cooler full ofbeer, another filled with sandwiches, and three ofhis own children to help unpack the truck.
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