“Thanks.”

She made no attempt at tact, ogling my face for a good three or four seconds before inviting me to sit and wheeling over to her drink station.

“Coffee?”

“Please.”

While her back was turned, I loosened my shirt collar (overwarm again) and felt to make sure that the gauze hadn’t slipped. It was still there, which meant that either she was staring at the dressing itself or the redness had spread beyond its edges, which I doubted could have happened in the hour since I’d put it on. Either way, I thought it took remarkable gall of her to stare. She’d probably been stared at her whole life. I didn’t tell her that, though. I wanted to, but I didn’t. I smiled and said whole milk would be fine, thanks.

As she fixed our drinks, we chatted about happenings in the department. It struck me that once upon a time I’d been sitting in this exact chair, getting spit-roasted by the same woman who now set out two mugs emblazoned with the Harvard seal, passed me a tin of almond-fennel seed biscotti, and asked if I knew about the upcoming Anscombe colloquium.

“Technically, of course, you’re still not enrolled. But I suppose I wouldn’t feel obliged to call campus police.”

“You’re too kind.”

“That’s something I’ve never been accused of.” She smiled and laid her hand atop a stack of printed pages. “Right. Let’s talk turkey. This is really you?”

“Indeed,” I said.

“Because reading it, I can’t help but wonder if someone came and replaced the Joseph I know with a robot who looks and sounds like him but is a halfway decent and efficient writer.”

Trying to capture Alma’s voice had been a challenge. It had a lightness to it, a musicality and playfulness befitting her voice in life, quite in contrast to the turbid stuff I’d spent years churning out. In doing the translation I also had to overcome a pervasive fogginess, one I could drive out for only a few minutes at a time, and then with fierce concentration. I was doing the same now, trying to appear alert and nonchalant rather than drained and anxious.

“People change,” I said.

“Well, let me be the first to say it: I may have misjudged you.”

I made a conciliatory gesture.

“I will say that parts of the argument feel antiquated to me, such as the section on action theory. A lot has happened since mid-century. Still, I’m interested in seeing where you go from here.”

Though I had already finished translating most of the second chapter while waiting for her to read the first, I didn’t want to give the impression that my new work was coming to me too easily. I said I could get her the next section by mid-February.

“I look forward to it,” she said.

I asked if I could still qualify to graduate in the spring.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. One page at a time, mm?” She smiled, raised her mug to me. “For now it’s enough for me to feel gratified that there are still some things about the universe I don’t fully understand.”

Heavyset, with smooth, sallow skin and heavy bags under his eyes, he presented with a peculiar combination of youth and age. A dingy brown scarf overflowed the collar of his oversized nylon jacket; on his belt he wore a beeper.

“Can I help you?” I said.

He stared at me for an interminably long time before asking to speak to Ms. Spielmann. His tone was robotic, an impression bolstered by the color of his eyes-bluish-gray, what people call gunmetal.

“She’s passed away.” I paused. “I live here now.”

He nodded once.

The wad of gauze on my face felt gigantic; it was difficult not to turn away.

“Was there something I could do for you?” I said.

He came down off the porch, a photograph in his hand.

It was a snapshot of Daciana, faded and badly creased. I was startled to see that in her younger days, she had not been entirely unattractive. A tad horsey around the mouth, but far from the meaty fortress I had known. I set down my lambskin bag, pretending to examine the photo for much longer than I needed to but not nearly long enough for me to explore every branch of a rapidly expanding decision tree. On the one hand, I could say that I was new here and had therefore never known Daciana. This would seem to nip any problem in the bud, but it also had the potential to backfire severely. If, for example, she had talked about her new employer. Getting caught in a preemptive lie could raise all sorts of questions that might otherwise go unasked. On the other hand, I could allow that I did in fact know Daciana, but had (a) not seen her in a long time (a lie somehow less damning than claiming to have never known her in the first place) or (b) had seen her on the day she showed up to work and had paid her as usual and sent her along on her merry way. The advantage of (b) was that it accounted for the possibility that someone had seen her car in the driveway; the disadvantage was, obviously, that it linked me to her in time and place. On the other hand, I might not have anything to be concerned about at all. It wasn’t the police at my door but a stranger. Her son, I assumed. He seemed about the right age. Andrei? And I understood then that if he was her son, then she was his mother; together they made a family, one that I had destroyed. Families were not abstractions, they were made of real people; but that did not factor, it could not factor, in the present calculus, and so I wrenched myself back toward a more constructive line of thinking. Whoever this person was, he was clearly not the police. Come to think of it, it was possible he hadn’t yet reported her missing. Perhaps he didn’t live with her, and had come home only recently to discover her gone. How old was he, exactly? Old enough to have moved out? I couldn’t refine my initial impression of him any further without looking up from the photo, which I didn’t want to do because I could feel him waiting for me to speak. Even assuming the worst—that he did live with her, and that he’d known of her absence since that very morning—would a young man really know his mother’s work schedule, down to the hour? What child pays that kind of attention to his parents? (And how hard had she worked to give him a life here? And how many toilets scrubbed? And how many loads of laundry washed, dried, fluffed, folded?) Moreover, that it was specifically him standing here and not the police could mean that he had talked to them but that they did not consider me a person of interest; therefore, I had nothing to be afraid of. On the other hand, that might just reflect ineptitude on their part, a slow or lazy investigator. Neither the police nor her son (if that was in fact who he was) had any reason to suspect me at all, and if they or he somehow discerned that I was lying, that might rouse them or him to full attention. On the other hand, why in the world would I ever want to hurt Daciana? What did I stand to gain? She was a housekeeper. (A hardworking lady with a library card, the modern embodiment of the American dream.) On the other hand, if it emerged that Eric was missing as well, that lit a fire under the idea that people had a tendency to disappear around me. On the other hand, nobody had contacted me about Eric, which might mean that his disappearance had gone unnoticed—which made sense, given the kind of person he was, the kind of circles he probably ran in. On the other hand, I had to assume that he had at least a couple of friends, other losers or girls he’d picked up and dropped much in the way he had that awful night that I couldn’t bear to think about now. No man is an island, I thought, and then I thought about my first Harvard roommate, a gay theater junkie named Norman Slepian who liked to tell people that he was an island, as in “Norman is an island,” and though it was outrageous and inexplicable to be thinking of him then, I couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to him. We had gone our separate ways after freshman year. And but back to the present: Eric was gone. Someone would know. When they could not find him, would they assume that he had skipped town? Would they call the police? It was a giant leap to assume that anyone could/would connect Eric with me, and me with Daciana; what happened happened rather more out of serendipity than due to any planning on my part. On the other hand, I still had so many other hands to consider, and this boy—this man-boy—he was waiting for an answer, and I was operating in a complete vacuum, right out on the brink of plausibility, all of these pluses and minuses racking up in my white-hot brain in the space of twenty long seconds. I had to say something.

“Right,” I said. I flapped the photo, handed it back to him. “My housekeeper.”

“It’s my mother,” he said.

The decision tree began to collapse.

“Ah,” I said. “It took me a second. How old’s that picture?”

“She hasn’t been home in three weeks,” he said.

Another branch collapsed.

“Oh, no,” I said. “I hope everything’s all right.”

He licked his lips. They were horrendously chapped. “Did she come to work that week?”

“When are we talking about?”

“About three weeks ago.”

A third branch.

“Gosh. Well, I—I hate to say it, but I actually had to let her go a little while back. I was sorry I had to do it, but—”

“How long ago.”

“Beg pardon?”

“How long ago did you fire her.”

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly say that I fi—it wasn’t like that, it’s more a question of cost, the economy being how it is right now, but, uhhhh. Maybe six, seven weeks?”

“So she wasn’t here.”

“When are we talking about, again.”

“Three weeks ago.”

“Well, then, I suppose not, no, I don’t think so.”

Silence.

“Is everything okay?” I said.

“They found her car,” he said.

A fourth.

“Oh, no. Oh, that’s, that’s ... So you’ve called the police, I assume.”

“They’re looking for her.”

“I see. But you don’t know where she could’ve gone.”

“No,” he said. “Do you?”

My right eye socket pulsed. “I don’t know why I would.”

“Maybe she said something to you the last time she came to work.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “If she did, I’d’ve forgotten by now.”

“Okay,” he said.

Silence.

His face shimmered and danced before me.

“She was a very nice lady,” I said.

“She might still be alive.”

“Well, yes. I’m sure she is. I mean, hope so.”

He said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean—I’m sorry. It’s upsetting to hear, is all. I hope she’s fine. I’m sure she’ll turn up. You don’t know anything else?”

“No.”

“Well. Please, do let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

“Can I get your number?” he asked.

“Well—uh, sure. Sure.” I reached into my pocket, found an old grocery store receipt. “I, uh, I don’t seem to have a—”

He held out a pen.

“Thanks.” I used my leg as a desk. “Please do let me know what happens.”

He said nothing.

I gave him the receipt, raised a hand. “Take care.”

“My pen,” he said.

It was a cheap ballpoint, not the kind of thing people are particular about getting back. His asking for it made me nervous. As he took it from me, the briefest flicker of a smile passed across his face. It left as quickly as it had come, and he walked away without looking back.

“Hm?”

“I said it sounds like it went well.”

“What does.”

Yasmina glanced at me over her shoulder. “Your meeting with Linda?”

“Right,” I said. My mind was still replaying that little smile of his, the way it blinked on and was gone, like a blown lightbulb. “I guess it went pretty well.”

“Don’t get too excited, now. It’s only your entire academic future.” She gave the pot a stir, covered it, reduced the heat. “This has to simmer for a half-hour.”

“... okay.”

“If you’re hungry in the meantime, I picked up some hummus.”

“... thanks.”

She faced me, her hands working in a dishtowel. “Honey?”

“Mm.”

“Is everything okay.”

No.

“Yes.”

“Okay. Are you sure?”

“Sure I’m sure.” I paused. “I’m thinking about everything I have to do.”

“You’ve been working so hard. You must be tired.”

“I’m a little tired.”

“Maybe ...” she said.

I looked at her. She was biting her lip.

“What,” I said.

“Maybe you should see a doctor.”

Silence.

“What for,” I said.

“I don’t know, maybe they could give you something to help you sleep.”

“I sleep fine.”

“Last night you were thrashing around so much I had to wake you up.”

I said nothing.

“Were you having a bad dream?”

Silence.

“I don’t remember.”

“Well, it must have been bad.” She reached for a package of couscous. “You were mumbling.”

“. . . oh?”

She nodded, reading the back of the box.

“What did I say.”

“Nothing, per se. Mumbling’s not really the right word. More like humming.”

The room bowed inward, as though the surface of reality had been depressed by a giant finger.

“Was I,” I said.

“Mm-hm.”

“What was I humming.”

“I couldn’t tell.” One corner of her mouth went up. “It was pretty off-key.”

“... I’m sorry.”

“Oh, I don’t care. I have my earplugs. But you always used to sleep like a log.”

I said, “I guess I’m stressed.”

“I’m sorry. Is there something I can do?”

I shook my head, which in movement felt large and dense and graceless and above all suffused with heat. The room—my visual field—they were still rippling, and I began to sway drunkenly.

“I’m going to sit in the living room,” I said.

She looked at me.

“It’s the stovetop,” I said. “It’s making the whole room stuffy.”

Without waiting for her response, I got up and left the room and took a seat on the sofa, staring at the empty fireplace. It might as well have been going full bore; the small of my back felt humid and so did my armpits and I untucked my shirt. My feet, too, seemed swole up, too big for my shoes, which I kicked off, flexing my toes in discomfort. The drunkenness was intensifying, and along with it came a truly unnerving sensation of my mind slowly migrating outside my skull, so that my thought process was happening a foot in front of me, and that when I turned my head my awareness followed on a delay, drifting like a buoy.... To release the heat building up under my shirt, I undid the top button, rolled up the sleeves, and finally pulled it off, and that was when I became conscious of Yasmina, watching me from the doorway.

An aura surrounded her, golden and lambent.

“Honey?”

I stared at her, fascinated.

“Honey, you ...” She did not sound like her usual self. “Do you want a drink?”

“I’m not thirsty.” I said it but then realized that I was thirsty; very thirsty, in fact, thirstier than I had ever been. But I didn’t want to ask her for anything or do anything to alarm her further. I wanted to be left alone, to keep very still until the room slowed down.

“You should check on the stew,” I said. My words had a close echo, like I was speaking into a paint can. “You don’t want it to boil over.”

“What’s going on with you,” she said.

“Of course I’m okay,” I said.

Silence.

“That’s not what I asked,” she said.

I said nothing.

“You look ...” she said.

“I look what.”

“Nothing,” she said.

Silence.

“I think you should go to the doctor,” she said.

“I’m not going to the doctor.”

“It doesn’t look like it’s getting any better.” Timidly, she approached. “It looks infected.”

“You’re not a doctor,” I said. I gathered my mind, made a bulwark against this attack of hers.

“That’s why I want you to go see one.”

“I don’t have any coverage.”

“Go to UHS.”

“I’m not a Harvard student.”

“I thought Linda said she would reinstate you.”

“She said she’d think about it.”

“You can’t just ignore it.”

“I’m not ignoring it. I’m letting it heal.”

“But it’s not healing.”

She was standing close to me now, and I could feel her body radiating heat. I edged away from her, toward the end of the sofa. “Will you leave it alone? Please? Leave it alone.”

“There’s a free clinic a mile and a half from here.”

“Yasmina—”

“Or go to the emergency room. They have to take you. It’s the law. Here,” she said, bending toward me, “let me have a look.”

She plucked at the gauze and it was a faceful of nettles and I seized away from her and flew back over the arm of the sofa as though jerked by a harness; I landed on my arm and got up, reeling down the hallway.

“Goddammit. ”

“Shit. Oh, shit. I’m so sorry.”

“I told you to leave it alone.”

“Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not okay, that hurt.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

I slammed the bathroom door. My face in the mirror was glossy with sweat. I hadn’t taken the gauze off in several days, and as I peeled back one corner I saw a thumb-sized patch of flesh, hysterically swollen and red, so sensitive that I had to bite down to prevent myself from crying out as I removed the rest of the dressing.

“Joseph?”

“Hang on a minute.”

I tried to trim myself a new piece of gauze, but I couldn’t hold the scissors straight and I was afraid of stabbing myself in the wrist. I let the scissors drop to the floor and tore off a ragged strip, good enough.

“Can I come in?”

The tape got stuck to itself. I wrung it in frustration; it twisted into rope.

“Are you okay?”

“Just—hang on.”

As I put the new dressing in place, I inadvertently pressed down on the hot spot, sending a spike through the entire right half of my head. Everything capsized, but I stayed up, gripping the sink.

The door started to open. “Joseph—”

Silence.

The door closed.

Six ibuprofen, dry-swallowed: they caught in my throat, it was like scraping asphalt all the way down, and as I cupped sink water I saw my palms blotchy. My arms, too. And my chest, and my neck; all of me, I was speckled pink and white. I drank. The heat was back within seconds, and, shutting the medicine cabinet, I saw not me but him, his little smile.

Hello.

And I lurched down the hall to my office, where I lay on the bed, sweating into the duvet, until it began to feel like lava against my back, and I got up and threw open the window, letting the cold night air stream over me like mercy itself. I began to plan, ignoring Yasmina’s voice calling me for dinner until I heard her coming down the hall, heard my name, heard her pause at the threshold.

“What are you doing,” she said.

“Working,” I said.

“Joseph,” she said. “Come away from there.”

“I like it here.”

“You’re going to get sick.”

The horizon canted; I righted myself against the sash. Brother, was it ever hot in here. “I’m working, Yasmina.” It appeared that I was stuttering. It’s my teeth, I thought, they’re chattering. That they should chatter when I felt so hot was strange. Everything was strange. Why was she looking at me in that way. I lunged toward the doorway, causing her to cringe and leap back.

“Wait—”

I shut the door, locked it, leaned against it, listening to my blood. She was knocking, the rat-a-tat of her knuckles against the door rapid and insistent and telltale. I unbuttoned my pants and kicked them off. God, it was so intolerably awfully hot, hottern two mice hump in in a wool sock. Even the outside air wasn’t helping anymore, and so I tugged off my drawers. Still no relief. I was on fire. My face was on fire. My face hurt. Pressure behind my right eye, I wanted to gouge it out. She was talking, it was driving me mad. Why wouldn’t she leave me alone? I had worries to worry, plans to plan. I walked in circles. Why did he come here, he had to have a reason. We have reasons for what we do: reasons are what make us different from other animals, they’re the core of decisions, which are the core of our ability to choose, and hence our freedom. Without reasons we are machines. Was he a machine, he looked like a machine. Maybe he was a machine? But he had a photograph. She was his mother, she gave birth to him, machines didn’t reproduce that way. Maybe she was a machine, too. Maybe we all were. I was a robot who looked and sounded exactly like myself but who was a halfway decent writer. He was analyzing me with his camera eyes: he had built-in apparatuses. I thought of his smile and then I thought of the pen, of course: the pen. He took the pen because it had my fingerprints on it. He was goofing on me, getting me to write down my phone number: he didn’t need my number; he had it already; my number was his and it was up. Well I’d show him. I knew what I would do, it was foolproof. I would wait for him. I would follow him, study him until I learned his patterns and habits, better than he knew them himself, I would educate myself. I would find the right moment and then I would act to quiet him, thereby reducing the total overall risk I faced. Life is full of risk, one can never be risk-free, but one can certainly mitigate the forces acting against one, and that was what I would do. I would act to protect myself. Somewhere in a small, dark room there were small, dark men laying small, dark plots against me, I would not be their plaything. There existed the possibility that they already had the pen in their possession, but that problem was not insurmountable, because fingerprints are made of skin and skin can be removed. I put my hands against the woolen blanket and began to sand away, I would do this one thin layer at a time. It didn’t seem to be working, though, and I searched the room on my hands and knees for something rough with which to exonerate myself. Underneath the bed near the baseboard I found a leftover piece of glass, a fragment painted in orange houndstooth, and with its longest edge I began systematically to shave the soft pad of my left thumb, one thin layer at a time. It wasn’t working, was it? I scrutinized. My thumb was red but the ridges and whorls were still very much intact, so I investigated the possibility of perhaps slicing off a layer parallel to my thumb. All it did was bleed, though. I felt nothing, the nerves wired for pain were all jammed with signals from my face, so I sat there grinning at my own blood, watching as it trickled down my wrist and into the crook of my elbow and pooled on the floor. I was thinking I had so much planning to do. I wanted to plan as far ahead as possible, but it was impossible to concentrate with her making noise like that. Listen to her. Honey. Please. What’s going on here? Please open up. I’m scared. You’re scaring me. Please. I love you. I know you love me. I don’t know what’s going. Let me know you’re okay. I’ll leave you alone if you say something. Don’t do this to me. Please. I want it to be better. You’re going to be okay. Everything is. I promise. I can help you. Let me help you. Please open up. Please don’t stay locked in there all night. And on and on and on and on and you only wish she would stop talking. Shut up. Shut up. You can’t stand it anymore, just shut up and let it be, shut up. Listen to how scared she sounds. It’s nothing compared to what you feel, though. You feel capable of anything. You need silence so you can think. Put down the glass and stand up and walk again in circles, covering your ears to wall her out. Shut up. The anger inside you has teeth; is it its own living thing, independent of you. You are merely a host to it. Shut up, please shut up. If she doesn’t shut up, you might have to do something about it. Please shut up. You might have to bash her brains in. You wouldn’t enjoy it, but it’s all you can think about right now. Once upon a time you loved her but now there is nothing but fear, fear and heat and pain and the pressure of a billion vises, and standing at the closet, you reach for your good old friend, cold and heavy, the coolness of it feels wonderful pressed against your molten skin, hug him close. Things don’t work out, do they. Shut up. Things are what they are until they aren’t any longer. You have changed and changed again, you are a creature constantly evolving. Who can say when these transformations occur? Think about your brother. Was that fair? Think about the house and the money and the jewelry, was that fair? Sometimes the inequity lists in your favor; sometimes not. The universe moves and it moves you, the future pulling with inexorable gravity. You wonder if it is true, if you might actually harm her, and then you are small and curled and shaking, babbling to yourself as she pounds at the door, holding your friend by the neck, willing her to leave you be. You stay there until she gives up with an angry kick and you release him and he falls languidly to the floor and you fall, too, right there. Where you remain, and in some infinitely small time you dream

dream of a horse being whipped to death

waking to the moonlight streaming lucid through the open window and you are unclothed with a fist in your chest and your groin dripping and above all pain, obliterating the right half of the world, your brain a champagne bottle shook up ready to pop and as you move howling to the bathroom vertigo sends you crashing into the door. Your face is thick. Your cheek explodes every second. Get it off. It hurts. You must get it off. You cannot hear her, she is so far away, but she’s calling your name as you grope for the lightswitch. See your reflection through a one-dimensional haze.

“Oh God.”

In the doorway, her hands at her throat, looking at you. Nothing can conceal it, not anymore. Red and turgid, the inflamed rump of an animal in heat. Along your neck below your bulging jaw a bloody thumbprint where you earlier left evidence of yourself.

“Oh God. Oh my God. I’m calling an ambulance. Where are you going. Joseph. You can’t go out like that. Wait. Wait.”

Outside stroll naked through the snow. You expect it to be cold underfoot but it’s not so bad. In fact, it feels warm, with a pleasant beachy crunch. You dip your hands in the snow to see if it will remove the texture of your fingerprints, but to no avail, oh, well, keep on going, go on, walk.

Some distance away your name is being called.

Ignore it.

Maybe the brick of the sidewalk will work? But no. Your hands are bleeding again. This isn’t going to work. You need professional help. They can do amazing things with surgery.

Your name again, farther away.

A siren whines.

You’re almost there.

The tall hospital winks a thousand white eyeblinks.

They all blur together into one.

A sliding door, a wet rubber mat, a room full of people, good evening ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please.

The woman at the desk sees you and coming out of her chair breathlessly says the name of the Lord God.

“Okay.”

“Quite honestly it should never have been allowed to get to this stage.”

“I had no idea—oh. Oh, no. Joseph.”

Head up.

“Relax.”

“Sit back, honey. You have to sit back.”

“Relax.”

Relax.

Dreams.

The world looks funny.

Flat.

“Joseph.”

Why’s that like that.

“You’re okay. You’re fine, now.”

Touch your face.

“Don’t fiddle with it, please. They just changed the dressing.”

Try again.

“Please leave it alone. Please.”

“Knock knock.”

“Come on in. He’s up.”

“Oh good. Joseph? Hi there.”

A floating shape nearby. A voice familiar.

“Take it easy, there ... There. Isn’t that more comfortable?”

“He’s still pretty out of it.”

“Mm.”

“Thanks for coming by again.”

“It’s not a problem. Don’t you worry, they’ll take good care of him. It’s good you came in when you did. It could have been much worse. You know, you look pretty tired yourself. Why don’t you go home for a bit.”

“I don’t want to leave.”

“Sometimes the best thing is to get out for a little while. Get a bite to eat. Take a shower. Don’t worry about him. He’s not going anywhere.”

“... thank you, Dr. Cargill.”

“You rest up now.”

“Joseph? Did you hear that?”

“You know what, let him rest.”

“Take care. Thank you.”

Later:

“It’s nice of her to stop in. She’s not even your doctor. She just saw your name on the board.”

Later:

“Drew called. He’s in Atlantic City. He’ll be back tomorrow.”

Later:

“You could have died. Do you realize that? You’re such an asshole sometimes, you’re so fucking stubborn.”

Later:

“Please stop touching it. The nurse is getting mad. She said the next time she’s going to tie your wrists down.”

Later:

“Are you happy now?”

Later:

“I’m going to get some coffee. Do you want anything? Do you want me to change the channel? All right.”

Alone, free yourself and stand looking through a lens smoky and partially occluded.

A blue bulb flutters above the bathroom mirror. Lean in. The upper-right quadrant of your head mummified; with your hands (you still have fingerprints, it seems, you will have to file a complaint) find the joint and start to unwrap, unconcealing. It hurts. The gauze sticks to itself. Yellow crust. Red crust. The light ever more penetrating until: cold dry air on sutured skin, your face no longer yours, changed, the eye’s curtains drawn shut and sewn up tight and the space beneath vacant, you can scream now, that’s fine, it’s all over now, go on, go ahead, scream.