I stirred my scotch and soda, then sipped it. Susan knows that, aside from herself, only Emily can speak to me intimately. I responded, "Most of Susan's problems are of Susan's own making, and most of my problems are of my making. That's the problem." I added, "I think we're bored. We need a challenge."

"So, challenge each other."

I smiled. "To what? A sword fight? Anyway, it's not serious."

"But of course it is."

"There's nobody else involved," I said. "At least not on my part." I finished my drink and set the glass on a shelf. "We still have a good love life." "I'm sure you do. So take her upstairs and make love to her." "Really, Emily." People who are in steamy relationships think they've found a new cure for all life's ills.

"John, she really is devoted to you."

I can't get angry with Emily, but I said, with an edge in my voice, "Susan is self-centred, self-indulgent, narcissistic, and aloof. She is not devoted to anyone but Susan and Zanzibar. Sometimes Yankee. But that's Susan, and it's all right."

"But she is in love with you."

"Yes, she probably is. But she has taken me for granted."

"Ah," said the perceptive Emily. "Ah."

"Don't 'ah' me." We both laughed, then I said seriously, "But I'm not acting different to get her attention. I really am different."

"How so?"

"Well, I got drunk last night and slept outside, and I growled at a woman." Since Emily is my good friend, I was happy to tell her about my morning, and we were both laughing so hard, someone – I couldn't see who – opened the door a crack and peeked in, then shut it.

Emily took my arm. "Do you know that joke – 'What is a real man's idea of group therapy?' Answer, 'World War Two'."

I smiled tentatively.

She continued, "Beyond midlife crisis, John, and male menopause, whatever that is, is the desire to simply be a man. I mean in the most basic biological sense, in a way no one wants to speak about in polite company. To fight a war, or knock somebody over the head, or some surrogate activity like hunting or building a log cabin or climbing a mountain. That's what your morning was about. I wish my husband had let himself go once in a while. He started to believe that his paper shuffling was not only important, but terribly challenging. I'm glad you cracked up. Just try to make it a constructive crack-up."

"You're a very bright woman."

"I'm your sister, John. I love you."

"I love you."

We stood there awkwardly for a few seconds, then Emily asked, "Does this new fellow next door, Bellarosa, have anything to do with your present state of mind?"

It did, though I didn't completely understand myself how the mere presence of Frank Bellarosa on the periphery of my property was causing me to reevaluate my life. "Maybe… I mean, the guy has broken all the rules, and he lives on the edge, and he seems at peace with himself, for God's sake. He's completely in control and Susan thinks he's interesting."

"I see, and that annoyed you. Typical male. But Susan also tells me he seems to like you."

"I guess."

"And you want to live up to his estimation of you?"

"No… but…"

"Be careful, John. Evil is very seductive."

"I know." I changed the subject. "How long are you staying?" "Gary and I fly out early tomorrow. Come out and see us. We have a perfectly horrible shack near the water. We eat shrimps and drink Corona beer, we run on the beach and swat mosquitoes." She added, "And make love. Bring Susan if you wish."

"Maybe."

She put her hand on my arm and looked me in the eye. "John, you have got to get out of here. This is the old world. No one lives like this in America anymore. This place has a three-hundred-year history of secret protocols, ancient grievances, and a stifling class structure. The Gold Coast makes New England look informal and friendly."

"I know all that."

"Think about it." She moved toward the door. "Are you going to hide in here?"

I smiled. "For a while."

"I'll bring you a drink. Scotch and soda?"

"That's right."

She left and returned in a minute with a tall glass filled with ice and soda water and a whole bottle of Dewar's. She said, "Don't leave without saying good-bye."

"I may have to."

We kissed and she left. I sat on a stool and drank, surveying the room filled with table linens, silver pieces, crystal, and other objects from what we call a more genteel age. Maybe Emily was right. This world was half ruin and half museum, and we were all surrounded by the evidence of former glory, which is not a psychologically healthy thing, or good for our collective egos. But what lies out there in the American heartland? Dairy Queens and K Marts, pickup trucks and mosquitoes? Are there any Episcopalians west of the Alleghenies? Like many of my peers, I've been all around the world, but I've never been to America. I stood, braced myself, and made another foray into the cauldron of boiling family blood.

I walked upstairs where I knew there would be fewer people and went into the turret room, which is still a playroom for kids as it was when I was a child. There were, in fact, ten children in there, not playing make-believe as I had done, but watching a videotape of a gruesome shock-horror movie that one of them must have smuggled in. "Happy Easter," I said. A few heads turned toward me, but these children had not yet learned intelligible speech and were picking up points on how to become axe murderers.

I shut off the television and removed the videotape. No one said anything, but a few of them were sizing me up for the chain saw.

I sat and chatted with them awhile, telling them stories of how I had played in this very room before it had a television. "And once," I said to Scott, age ten, "your father and I made believe we were locked in here and it was the Tower of London and all we had was bread and water."

"Why?"

"Well… it was pretend."

"Why?"

"Anyway, we made paper airplanes with messages written on them, asking for help, and we sailed the planes out the window. And someone's maid found one and thought it was for real, and she called the police."

"Pretty stupid," said Justin, age twelve. "She must have been Spanish."

A little girl informed Justin, "They can't even read English, you dope." "The maid," I said with annoyance, "was black. There were a lot of black maids then and she read English and she was a very concerned woman. Anyway, the police came, and Aunt Cornelia called us downstairs to talk to them. We got a good lecture, then when the police left, we got punished by being locked up for real, in the root cellar."

"What's a root cellar?"

"She locked you up? For what?"

"Did you ever get even with the maid?"

"Yes," I replied, "we cut off her head." I stood. "But enough about last Easter." No one caught the subtle humour. "Play Monopoly," I suggested. "Can we have the tape back?"

"No." I walked out into the hallway with the videotape, sadder but wiser. I felt like sitting in the root cellar again, but as I made the turn in the hallway, I ran into Terri, a stunning blonde, married to my cousin Freddie, one of Arthur's brainless sons. "Well, hello," I said. "Where are you heading?" "Hello, John. I'm checking on the kids."

"They're fine," I informed her. "They're playing doctor and nurse."

She gave me a tight smile.

"Have you had your complete physical yet?" I inquired.

"Behave."

I walked over to a door across from the stairs and opened it. "I was on my way to the attic. Would you like to join me?"

"Why?"

"There are some beautiful old gowns up there. Would you like to try some on?"

"How's Susan?"

"Ask Susan."

Terri seemed a little nervous, but I couldn't tell if she was annoyed or considering the possibilities. I closed the attic door and moved toward the staircase. "I guess we're too old for make-believe." I started down the stairs, slowly.