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  Three in the morning, time to get to work. She took off the raincoat concealing her uniform, which she’d pieced together from a secondhand clothing shop. The coat went into the trashcan, from which she pulled a stepladder just tall enough to allow her to reach the first ceiling beam. Then the equipment: stencil, red spray paint.

  Inside the station’s main booth, an attendant with headphones sat reading a newspaper. She wasn’t in his line of sight; she’d make no noise. He would notice nothing.

  The stenciling took ten minutes, exactly as planned.

  Blair paused to drink water from a bottle. Hearing footsteps, she quickly folded her stepladder and stuck it in the can. She was wielding her broom when the footsteps passed: a young couple, paying no attention.

  She set up the ladder once more. The next part would take longer, about a half-hour. Each of the magnetic letters had to be put inside its clover-shaped space. She stretched one arm as far as it went; using the other for balance, she got all the letters in place. Stepping backward, she gazed up to check her work. Good: everything aligned.

  Humping the trashcan upstairs, she deposited it on the curb alongside several others. There was a car-service office two blocks away. In the back seat of a sedan, she slumped and closed her eyes.

  Improvisation meant waiting willingly, without impatience. Her job was to improvise—not to worry about Keith, not to give in to memory. Annul it.

  The driver was playing a tape in Arabic, something religious. He intoned his prayers softly. Keith never used to pray; he said God was for people who couldn’t handle being alone, and praying just an excuse to talk to yourself. Maybe he’d found a dog to keep him company. He wasn’t showing up anywhere online. Perhaps he was working at an animal shelter.

  He wouldn’t take money from her, even if she had any to give him. He’d rather steal, especially from people who could afford to lose stuff. Take from the rich, give to the animals—Keith said that right before he stole the neighbor’s car and burned it. The rich are animals too, she’d told him. Just a different kind of animal. You’re right, he’d said. You’re a smart pup, but watch your back. He’d taken hold of her earlobe and given it a quick twist, like when he needed to keep a stray cat in line—by flicking a fingernail at the spot right between its eyes, hard. Stunning it for a moment. Not to hurt it but to remind it.

  4

  Her seven lines got erased by MTA workers exactly seven days after she’d put them up.

  Hundreds of riders must’ve seen the Euphemisms; now the words were expanding in their minds, generating unforeseen actions. Those actions would cause other people’s minds to veer off course.

  When the mind stayed stuck in the motionless world of its hopes, said Camus, nothing could happen. But with its first move this world cracks and tumbles: an infinite number of shimmering fragments is offered to the understanding.

  Tumbling, shimmering fragments. Something to create—another project. But first the next one, which she’d already planned. Her paycheck wouldn’t cover all the supplies she’d need to pull it off, and it’d be impossible to nick everything from her workplace. She’d have to hit up a couple of other stores. There’d be some physical danger, too, especially on a moonless night. But nothing like what people who lived in Baghdad experienced every day. When the floor supervisor at work took a coffee break, there’d be a few minutes to go to the stockroom and lift some red paint.

  Why wouldn’t Keith trust her enough to make contact? Or did he think he had to stay invisible to everyone—every single person, no exceptions, including herself?

  Dead Ringer

  1

  The museum had closed to the public by the time Ellen headed upstairs to the front exit.

  The plaza’s fountain spurted, its plumes rising and falling unevenly. Several children stood near its low wall, giggling as they waited for ambush by water. For a minute or so the fountain danced, its geysers knee-high; then, without warning, the whole of it sprang to life, flinging water everywhere. The kids squealed.

  Lovely, wasn’t it, to be made curious rather than frightened by something unexpected. By the mess it made, for good or ill. Lucky kids—their curiosity still intact, stronger than fear.

  She headed toward the park.

  Two women were ferrying a picnic basket to the park’s exit. One of them began singing “Can’t Buy Me Love”; the other laughed, then joined in. At Ninth Street’s intersection with Prospect Park West, Ellen paused. The women continued southward, snatches of song trailing them.

  She gazed down Ninth Street. A half-mile away, the metal bridge spanning the Gowanus Canal winked as the setting sun struck it. Underground, the F lurched around the curve by the park. Steel whining on steel—how’d it go, that ballad about a train, those overwrought verses they’d been forced to memorize in fifth grade? Who wrote that poem, anyway? Robert Service, yes, one of those anthologized poets nobody’d ever heard of. The treadless tracks, the gleamy rails . . .

  Gleamy, just the right word. Much better than gleaming or shiny. Now there’s a word for metal, Mel would’ve said.

  2

  The two cats coiled round her ankles as she hung her coat by the door. Next to the coat rack were photos: Win with Mel, Walter in a tux at Tanglewood, Nola in the back yard with a watering can. La mamma used to do a bit of gardening. It got her outdoors, temporarily away from her gin.

  Jesus—who could’ve imagined there’d be two women in America called Enola Gay, one of whom had a son who would name his B-46 bomber after her? Walter had transformed the other, Enola Gay from Cleveland, Ohio, into Nola Portinari. But the original name remained useful as a weapon. My bombshell, he’d needle her, Hiroshima mon amour, what seems to be the problem?

  A talent for cruelty, he’d had. And Nola, for singing and for gardening while drunk. And Win for composing in his cage. And herself, erstwhile poet, for trying to equate doing nothing with feeling nothing, and failing at it.

  The cats pranced to the kitchen. She fed them, then belly-flopped onto her bed. The cats followed, curling up at her feet. Within seconds they were asleep, exhaling raspy air-puffs.

  She rolled onto her back, yawning. A quick pre-supper nap, why not?

  3

  Boy-Cat climbed onto her stomach.

  Off, you oaf!

  Was it too much to ask for—a brief respite, a bit of time with no thoughts at all about the future? A temporary silencing of the constant what-to-do refrain in her head? If no freelance work turned up soon, it wouldn’t be pretty. And the museum gig was never destined to last.

  Eyes open, closed, open, closed. The mind’s theater, with eyelashes as the curtain. Picture it—if she were to win that Pick Seven game . . . what-to-do, indeed. A rat’s-nest of what-to-do. Of course people who won the lottery had help, if you could call it that. They got advice, good and terrible; in any case, they didn’t just go it alone. Well, some of them tried to, and soon lost their shirts.

  Picture it. A small cluster of men in dark suits would arrive each month for a meeting. They’d ring her bell, and when she opened the door they would stand in silence, staring at her, like a well-dressed hit-squad. The head honcho would greet her formally, then hand over a stack of checks and documents for her to sign.

  Those new bonds you bought last month, he’d begin, were a smart buy.

  I didn’t buy them, she’d tell him. You bought them, using my money. I don’t want to hear any details, remember? Just results.

  Yes, of course, he’d murmur. We now have additional recommendations for you. We suggest that you invest in these new tech companies.

  He’d offer her a set of brochures.

  Don’t show me that stuff, she’d say. I told you already—no details. I assume you’re not screwing me over, or screwing things up. If you are, I’ll fire you and hire one of your competitors. I’ve got more lawyers watching you and your lawyers, you know.

  We are well aware of that, the man would respond with a pained smile.

  Tell me about my bill
s, she’d say. All paid, yes?

  Of course. Here’s the printout of this month’s spending. Apart from food and books, you spent more on shoes this month than last. Also on tickets for performances. But you have a very modest lifestyle. Exceedingly so, in our experience.

  What about the house for my brother, in Kensington. Did you take care of that?

  Yes, it’s been bought outright, as you requested. No mortgage. Of course all his basic bills have been paid, too. And his new Steinway piano has been purchased. It’ll be delivered in a few weeks.

  What else?

  Your co-op membership has been cancelled, per your request. We made your donation to the co-op anonymously, as you also requested. On a different note, our attorneys have nearly finished the work of setting up your private foundation. Have you made any further decisions about its mission? You’ll need to start thinking in specifics, and considering who should serve on the board of directors.

  I’m not ready, she’d say. Don’t rush me.

  Just a reminder, the man would say. There are consequences for delaying—tax-related . . .

  I couldn’t care less, she’d say.

  All right, then. Oh—we are still interviewing for a personal assistant to help you organize your personal library. Are you enjoying the new handcrafted bookshelves? They’re very nice. The artist who made them is happy with her commission; it was very generous.

  Remember, she’d say, I need an assistant who actually reads poetry.

  Finding such a person isn’t quite in our wheelhouse, but we’ll do our best, the head honcho would respond. And as you requested, we’ll send someone to instruct you in the use of your new cellphone. It’s got all the latest security features, which are crucial for you. These devices can be pretty challenging for a person who isn’t well versed in—

  —let’s wind up this meeting, she’d interrupt. I have better things to do with my time. Like staring out the window. I do a lot of that, these days.

  All right . . . We do hope you’re enjoying your new financial security. We want our clients to feel happy, in addition to being happily situated. If there’s anything else we can do to increase your personal satisfaction, do let us know.

  At that, the team of advisors would stand up in unison, preparing to take their leave.

  You’re missing the point, she’d say to the head honcho. What you people don’t understand is that suddenly becoming filthy rich is equal parts exhausting and terrifying. The word fun has nothing to do with this experience. It is unnatural, absurd, ludicrous. In my best moments I feel a panicky sense of freedom, as though I were riding a bike downhill with my feet off the pedals and only my forefingers touching the handlebars. In my worst moments, I find the whole experience just this side of grotesque.

  In stricken silence, the men would file out.

  So which was better: that scenario, or poverty?

  Good lord.

  The phone—was that the ringing sound in her ears? Yes . . . must be Dale, with news about the closing date for his apartment.

  She reached for the receiver.

  Sorry to bother you, El. You asleep?

  Win? No, just dozing. What’s up?

  I’ve heard from Mel’s sister.

  What? She phoned you?

  No, emailed. I happened to check my email this morning. She’s coming to New York, arriving Wednesday.

  When’s the last time you spoke with her?

  Not since we made the arrangements for . . . I didn’t hear from her after that. She’s been in Madrid all this time. Teaching ESL classes.

  But she’s coming back to New York? Like, for good?

  Didn’t say. I’ll find out, I’m having dinner with her on Friday.

  Look, don’t get pulled into listening to stuff you don’t want to hear . . . what’s her name, anyway? I don’t think you ever mentioned it.

  It’s Maria. Talk to you later.

  4

  Both cats perched at her side, ears upturned.

  She tossed the phone to the foot of the bed.

  What was this woman doing—contacting Win out of the blue like that, two years after the fact? Did she look like Mel, sound like her? What if she ordered a bottle of wine and started recounting every detail of that morning at the station? How messed-up would that be?

  Well, at least he’d be drinking with a live girl, not a dead one.

  Maybe this Maria would distract him. For sure she’d give him a chance to talk about Mel. Maybe for a few minutes he’d focus on the happy madness. Perhaps he’d be able to close his eyes and hear it, the music of it, of his love. Just that, nothing else. Maybe he’d realize he could write it down. Not draw it but notate it, so it could be played.

  Boy-Cat and Girl-Cat hopped to the floor and looked up, inquiringly.

  All right, gatti. Time to get up—it’s my suppertime now.

  Nothing to Report

  1

  You home, Ellen? I’m downstairs.

  Dale—what was he doing on this side of the river at 7:00 a.m.?

  You okay, bud?

  Yeah, fine. I had a date last night and ended up here in the Slope, where she lives . . . you awake?

  Up and dressed. Want a cup of coffee?

  Buzz me in!

  He looked tired. Not unhappy, just sleep-deprived. Sprawling on the sofa, he patted its cushions.

  Hey, you cats, get up here next to me! What a night I’ve had . . .

  I’m all ears, but I gotta leave at a quarter of, no later, okay? Oh, have you already closed on the apartment?

  Nope, it’s been rescheduled again. For next Tuesday. Anyway . . . I need to tell you about my date. So, I get to this woman’s apartment after a really nice dinner with her. She’s a printmaker, has a studio in Gowanus, does interesting work. We ate at that place you took me to once, remember? On Eleventh. Then we go back to her place, and we’re talking and laughing and, um, preparing to do other stuff . . .

  Really? First date?

  Second, actually. Not my usual M.O., as you know. But in this case it felt like it wouldn’t do either of us any harm and might actually do some good. So . . . things are starting to move in that direction, and then her cell phone rings. She glances at it to see who it is, and it’s her ex, only I don’t know that. But it soon becomes obvious, because she answers, and they have words—is that the right expression, do people still say that? Then she hangs up and tosses the cellphone across the room.

  Throws it, you mean?

  Yep. It doesn’t break, though. Then she spends fifteen minutes telling me about the ex’s unreliability, how he still has stuff of hers he hasn’t returned, blah-blah, and I’m nodding and thinking, I’m outta here as soon as I can get a word in edgewise. But then she stops talking, starts laughing, and says, well, are you totally bored and irritated with me now? And I say to myself, why not tell her the truth? So I say yeah, actually, I am, pretty much. And she gives me this relieved look and says thanks, you’re really great, I’ve been a total asshole, do forgive me, I don’t know what got into me, I’ve been under a bit of stress, can we start over.

  Huh.

  Yeah. Kind of impressive, actually. And something in me says well, okay, why not. So . . . we do. And it’s, um, it’s quite nice. Like, really. And then, at around five in the morning, I wake up, and she’s awake too. She turns and looks at me, and her look is . . . trusting, I’d call it. Calm and trusting. And then she goes, can I tell you about my brother?

  Her brother?

  Yeah. My reaction as well. She sees my puzzled face and goes, yeah, I know it’s not the first thing you were expecting to hear, but I figure if you’re the kind of man I take you for, you’ll understand why I have to tell you. So I go, okay, tell me about him. She proceeds to tell me that when her mother died, she was sixteen and her brother was twelve. They were both home with their father when they got a call from the police saying the mother’d been killed driving home from work. Somebody’d hit her head-on.

  Jesus.

  Ye
ah. So Teresa—that’s my date’s name—she can’t remember much about what happened after that phone call, except that the father kept walking around the room going oh God, oh God, but the brother said nothing. Just stood there staring into space. Then after a while the brother walked out the front door, without a word. No coat or anything. The father doesn’t even notice at first, he’s so distraught. But then he pulls himself together enough to realize not only is his wife dead, but his son is AWOL. So he and Teresa start calling around to the brother’s friends’ houses, but no one’s heard from him. The cops tell the father to just wait, the kid will turn up. But the father insists on looking for him—the father’s basically going nuts at this point—so he and Teresa get in the car.

  Wait, where’s all this taking place?

  About fifteen miles from New London, Connecticut. You know, where the Navy has that submarine base? So anyway, Teresa and her father drive around a bunch of suburban neighborhoods, but they don’t see the kid anywhere. Then they go to the base itself. It’s a November night, cold, rainy. They go to the guardhouse and ask for help, saying the kid’s missing, his mother’s just died, et cetera. One of the guards gets a flashlight, and they start looking, and before long they find the kid. He’s a couple hundred yards from the main entrance, and he’s huddled with a guard dog. Lying on the ground with his arms around the dog—the dog having realized the kid’s not a danger but is in danger. Both the kid and the dog are soaking wet.

  Dale leaned back into the sofa, closing his eyes.

  And then . . . ?

  Sorry . . . I’m kind of wired and tired at once. Okay, so then Teresa stops talking, sits up in bed, and tells me she woke up just before I did, right in the middle of a dream in which I found the dog.

  You what?

  Uh-huh. She tells me that in her dream, I had the dog in my apartment. The very same dog, I mean. Only much older, of course—older but basically fine. And that’s why we met, she says. It wasn’t pure chance, and it wasn’t because of Match.com. It’s because I found the dog.