“I used to think I was going to be an artist, remember? An artist, a musician…all I’ve ever really been is a dilettante.”

“You’ll always be an artist, Crow. No matter how much you throw yourself into business, you’re not going to be able to snuff out that part of yourself. Tess fell in love with you when you were a bookstore clerk, remember?”

“And fell out love with me. Remember?”

“Her faith faltered once or twice along the way. Her faith in herself, not you. Besides, you’re the one who bails, leaving when things don’t go exactly the way you want. You first bolted when she admitted she was attracted to someone else. You did the same thing when she said she wasn’t sure she wanted to get married. Not that she didn’t love you or didn’t want to be with you. Just that she was unsure of marriage-and of your motives for proposing when you did.”

“I love her. That’s not a motive.”

Kitty may have carried the name and looks of an Irishwoman, but she had the soul of a Jewish mother. Throughout the conversation she had been working behind the counter, heating a cheese tart, slicing fruit, then placing it all before Crow on a large Fiestaware platter. He hadn’t even realized he was hungry, but he fell on the food happily.

“Of course you love her. But you asked her to marry you because you felt guilty about what she went through when she was almost killed. Which, by the way, was entirely her fault. Not yours.”

“She was targeted by a psycho. That’s not exactly something she brought on herself.”

“Fair enough. But the way she chose to handle it-that was her decision, before and after. No one could have protected her. How do you think her parents felt? Or me? Or Tyner? We were all horrified, after the fact.”

“Okay, but why doesn’t she want to get married? Her parents are happy enough-”

“Now. They were a little feistier when Tess was young, always bickering. They found it fun and even erotic, I think, but try to explain that to a five-year-old. The main thing is, I don’t think Tess wants to have children, not yet. And what’s the point of getting married if you’re not going to have children?”

Crow thought he had her at last. “Kitty, you got married for the first time in your forties. Are you planning to have children?”

“I’m not playing by anyone else’s rules,” she said, smiling.

Crow was too distracted to notice how neatly Kitty had sidestepped his question. The physical activity of setting up the exhibit had provided only a temporary reprieve from the thoughts that had been troubling him all day. He had always known it was risky keeping secrets from Tess, no matter how benign. She despised looking foolish under any circumstances. As much as she fibbed and lied her way through her professional life, she was scrupulously honest in her personal one and expected the same from others.

But really, there had never been any point in full disclosure and, more important, never an appropriate time. He’d been waiting for all the stars to align, for Tess’s business to pick back up, so she wouldn’t feel pitied or patronized. Perhaps he should volunteer the information now, to soothe her fears over what the insurance companies might do to her. But she would be angry, and he hated to invoke her wrath, especially when things between them were so smooth, almost honeymoon-like.

Or had been, before he brought home a joyriding thief who tried to burglarize them.

9

By sundown it was clear that Lloyd’s only choices for the night were the streets or one of the mission shelters, which he despised, with their enforced God shit, not to mention all the other rules. Might as well live with Murray ’s bullshit, in that case. And some of the hard-core men smelled so, a nasty funk of wet clothes and body odor and cheap wine. He had been trying to panhandle enough to get into the motel over on North Avenue, which wasn’t fussy about ID and age as long as you had cash, but he hadn’t come close to scraping up the almost forty dollars he needed. As a panhandler Lloyd lacked the natural advantages-no gimp, no limp-and while kindhearted women sometimes gave him a few dollars for food, he could never pull off those big scores, the ones that involved a lot of talking, a complicated story about a broke-down car or a bus, the one where you took the person’s name and swore to Jesus that you would repay them soon. No, all he had was fifteen dollars and some change, and the only thing that was good for was getting stolen.

Maybe his mother would actually take him in for the night. She’d do it for sure if he offered her the fifteen dollars, or even ten, but a mother should stand her boy to a bed for free. Plus, he hated Murray, Jamaican motherfucker always talking about the value of hard work. Home was almost as bad as the missions, especially if Antone, the four-year-old, was still peeing the bed.

Dub’s flop, though. That would work. Cold, but free. Lloyd would buy a sub and a Mountain Dew.

He stopped at Lucy’s and ended up getting a chicken box, which he wolfed down on the steps of an abandoned house a block away. He had meant to take it to Dub’s, share a little, but it smelled so good and warm, and it was heat that Lloyd craved as much as anything. He was down to the bones of the chicken, the Styrofoam box balanced on his knees, when he felt a vicious clap across the side of his head that knocked him to the street, the remains of his meal scattering.

“What the fu-”

The two boys who had jumped him worked silently and quickly, turning out his pockets and taking his change. They must have followed him from Lucy’s. It was business to them. They had seen him with cash and they wanted it, so they took it. Lloyd had no allegiances, no real backup. He was a free agent, and a free agent was prey. It made him angry, but it was like a mouse getting angry at a cat. Way of the world, outside his control.

Luckily, he had stashed the unicorn box in an inside pocket, deep inside the folds of his jacket where they couldn’t feel it. And at least he had finished his meal before they jumped him.

Knees and ego bruised, he collected himself with as much dignity as possible and limped toward Dub’s house of the month. It was boarded up, like most of the houses in the block, but Lloyd knew how to swing open the plywood on the door and crawl over the threshold. Cold, but not as cold as outside, and Dub had collected a good pile of blankets from the Martin Luther King Day giveaway at one of the soup kitchens.

“Hey,” Dub greeted him. He was reading a book by flashlight. Boy was a fool for schoolwork. “There’s a spot over there.”

“You wanna work tomorrow? I’m bust.”

“I could do it after school, if you wanna.”

“Midday’s better. More places. We gonna have to go work some strange territory, we wait until after school.”

“Got a test. And you know I can’t cut, or they gonna send a note home and find out I got no home to send it to.”

“Don’t know why you’re still fuckin’ with that school shit.”

Dub shrugged, pretending he didn’t know either. But Dub was smart. The teachers were always marveling at his brain, and they didn’t know the half of it. No one over at the school knew that his mother was in the wind, or that he hunkered down in vacant rowhouses with his brother and sister, Terrell and Tourmaline. If Dub stopped coming, the whole Lake Clifton faculty would probably take to the streets searching for him. And if he ever got busted for one of their “enterprises,” as Lloyd liked to think of the cons they pulled, those teachers would go to court, ask the judge to forgive and forget. Dub, not Lloyd. No one at the lake remembered who Lloyd was.

But Dub never got caught at anything. That’s how smart he was.

Lloyd picked his way among the others that Dub took in, preferring a spot by the wall, just one less person next to him. Once situated on his blanket, he took out the unicorn box, but he didn’t open it or propose smoking what he had brought. Dub was like a churchwoman when it came to drugs, didn’t want them anywhere near his brother and sister. Was it truly less than twenty-four hours ago that Lloyd had first seen this box, slipped it into his pocket, his head full of plans? He was going to sell the laptop and the camera, buy his mother some flowers or a pair of gold earrings, show up all flush, say he had a job.