"Paul was a little demon when we first met. It's amazing, huh? It's true though. He had hundreds of unpaid traffic tickets, and he used to shoplift with the coolest expression on his face you ever saw."

"Paul? Steal?"

"That's right."

"I can't believe it. My brother used to shoplift too. He once stole all our presents for Christmas."

"Really? How marvelous! See, he was interesting! I'll tell you something else too – you describe him with the most mixed emotions I've ever heard. One day he sounds like your hero, and the next you make him out to be Jack the Ripper."

We talked about it. The main course came, and the waiter asked if he should serve Paul's too or wait until he returned. I looked at my watch and with a jolt realized how long he had been gone. I looked at India to see if she was worried. She pushed the turkey around her plate for a few seconds, then looked at me.

"Joe, it's silly, but would you go to the bathroom and take a look? Everything is okay, I'm sure, but do it for me, would you?"

I put my napkin down and hastily brushed some crumbs off the front of my pants. "Sure! Don't, uh, don't let the waiter eat my turkey, okay?" I said it lightly, hoping she'd smile. But the look on her face was a kind of limbo between concern and exaggerated ease.

I was up, but I didn't want to go. I didn't want to move from the spot. I would have stood there happily in the middle of the restaurant, in front of all those people, for the rest of the day. Dread has no dignity.

Admittedly, since my brother's death terror was as much a part of me as anything else. I was forever quick to jump to conclusions, and often imagined the most awful thing that could occur in any given situation. That was because if I was wrong and it turned out to be nothing, then I would be delighted. If I was right (which was rarely), then the horror could no longer strike me with as much force as it had when Ross died.

I tried not to walk too quickly, both for India's peace of mind (if she happened to be watching) and so as not to draw the eyes of anyone around us. I stared straight ahead, but saw nothing. The thousand clanks of forks on plates and knives on spoons was louder and more alarming than I had ever realized. It drowned out the slip of my feet crossing the carpet and all the noises I make and am so aware of when I'm frightened and am moving toward whatever it is that's frightening me.

At the last minute I stumbled on a bumpy part of the carpet and only just regained my balance. The men's room was directly across from the restaurant in a darkened alcove lit only by a green HERREN sign above the door. I touched the cold metal knob and closed my eyes. I took a gigantic breath and pushed it open. I looked down the line of glistening white urinals. Paul wasn't there. I let out the breath. The room was unnaturally bright and smelled strongly of pine disinfectant. Three gray toilet stalls faced a line of white sinks on the far side of the urinals.

I called his name while I walked toward them. There was no answer. A dismal fear began to take hold of me again, although rationally I knew he could be in any of a hundred different places: making a long telephone call, browsing by the magazine rack . . .

"Paul?"

I saw something move beneath the door of the middle stall and, without thinking, fell to my knees to see what it was.

For a moment I was sure I recognized his beat-up black loafers, but then the legs rose slowly up and out of view – as if whoever was in there had pulled them to his chest for some bizarre reason. The thought rushed in and out of my mind that I should slide closer to the stall so I could see, but a remnant of the saner me prevailed and wailed that I should get the hell out of there and stop looking under toilet doors.

"Everybody out there has to sit down!"

"Paul?"

"No Paul! Little Boy is here! If you want to stay for the show, you have to play with Little Boy!"

I didn't know what to do. I was down on my knees looking up at the toilet door. A black top hat rose from behind it. Then Paul's face, framed by his two open hands (palms facing outward, thumbs under his chin). He was wearing his Little Boy gloves.

"We have called you all here today to find the answer to the Big Question: Why is Joseph Lennox fucking India Tate?" He looked down at me sweetly. I closed my eyes and saw the blood beating fast behind the lids.

"No one wants to answer? Aw, come on, gang. Boy puts on a whole magic show for you, and you won't answer his one little teeny question?"

I mustered the courage to look at him again. His eyes were closed, but his mouth still moved, talking silently.

Then, "Ha! If no one's going to volunteer, I'll just have to call on you, that's all. Joseph Lennox in the third row! Will you tell us why Joseph Lennox is fucking Paul Tate's wife?"

"Paul –"

"Not Paul! Little Boy! Paul isn't with us tonight. He's out somewhere going crazy."

The outside door whooshed open; a man in a gray suit came in. Paul ducked down into the stall, and I stupidly pretended to be tying my shoe. The man ignored me after a fast glance. He tucked in his shirt, straightened his tie, and went out. I watched him leave. When I turned back, Paul was there again, smiling down at me. This time he was resting his elbows on top of the metal door, his chin propped on his crossed white hands. In any other situation he would have looked cute. His head began to move from side to side, slowly and exactly, like a metronome pendulum to the beat.

"In-dia and Joe, sittin' in a tree

K-I-S-S-I-N-G!"

He said it two or three times. I didn't know what to do, where to go. What was I supposed to do? The smile fell away, and he pursed his lips. "Joey, I'd never have done it to you." His voice was soft as a prayer in church. "Never! Goddamn you! Get out! Get out of my fucking life! Bastard. You'd have gone with us to Italy! You'd've fucked her there, too! Get out!"

I think he was crying. I couldn't look. I ran.

6

Two miserable days later I was still trying to figure out what to do when the telephone rang. I looked at it for three full rings before I picked it up.

"Joe?" It was India. Her voice was scared, haunted.

"India? Hi."

"Joe, Paul's dead."

"Dead? What? What are you talking about?"

"He's dead, goddamn it! What do you think I mean? The ambulance men just came and took him away. He's gone. He's dead!" She started crying. Big, startling sobs, broken only by gasps for breath.

"Oh, my God! How? What happened?"

"His heart. He had a heart attack. He was doing his exercises and he just fell on the floor. I thought he was kidding. But he's dead, Joe. Oh, my God, what am I going to do? Joe, you're the only person I could call. What am I going to do?"

"I'll be there in half an hour. Less. India, don't do anything until I get there."

No one ever gets used to death. Soldiers, doctors, morticians see it continually and grow accustomed to a part or a facet of it, but not the whole thing. I don't think anyone could. To me, being told of the death of someone I knew well is like walking down a familiar staircase in the dark. You know from a million times on it just how many steps there are to the bottom, but then your foot moves to touch the next one . . . and it's not there. Stumbling, you can't believe it. And you will often stumble there from now on because, as with all things you know by habit, you've used that lost step so many times the two of you are inseparable.

Rushing down the staircase of my building, I kept testing (or was it tasting?) the words, like an actor trying to get his new lines straight. "Paul's dead?" "Paul Tate is dead." "Paul's dead." Nothing sounded right – they were sentences from an alien, out-of-this-world language. Words which, until that day, I had never imagined could exist together.