When we were out on the street again, I tried feebly to make up a story about working too hard and needing a rest, but he didn't swallow it. He wanted me to come home with him, but I wouldn't.

"Then what can I do for you, Joe?"

"Nothing, Pop. Don't worry about me."

"Joe, you promised me when Ross died that you'd come to me if you were ever in bad shape and needed help. I think you're breaking your promise."

"Look, Pop, I'll call you, okay?" I touched his arm and started to move away. I knew I was going to start crying and I'd be damned if I'd let him see it.

"When? When will you call? Joe?"

"Soon, Pop! In a few days!" I hurried to the corner of Seventy-second Street. Once there, I turned back toward him and, sticking my arm up as high as it would go, waved. As if one of us were on a ship, sailing away from the other forever.

I didn't see them until I had already opened the door to my building. It was after midnight. The black man had pushed the woman into a corner of the entryway. He was slamming her head against the metal mailboxes.

"What the hell's going on? Hey!"

He turned; I could barely make out that the sides of his mouth were shiny-slick with blood.

"Fuck off, man!" He held her by the neck while he spat this at me over his shoulder.

"Oh, help me!"

He shoved her away and came at me. Without thinking, I kicked him as hard as I could in the crotch, an old trick I had learned from Bobby Hanley. The man gasped and fell to his knees, both hands clamped between his legs. I didn't know what to do then, but the woman did. Stumbling for the second, inner door, she flung it open with a bang. I followed, and it whomped shut behind us, locking. The elevator was there, we were in it before the man even looked up.

Her hand was shaking so badly she was barely able to press 7, the floor below mine. When the car started to move, she bent over and threw up. She kept retching even when there was nothing left. She tried to turn to the wall, but she started coughing and choking; I was afraid she couldn't breathe. I went over and slapped her hard on the back.

The doors slid open, and I helped her out of the elevator. We stood in the hall while she took quick, heavy breaths. I asked her for the number of her apartment. She handed me her purse and started down the hall. She stopped in front of a door, pointing. She started retching again, and without thinking, I took hold of her shoulders.

Her name was Karen Mack. The man had been waiting for her in the hallway and had punched her in the face the first thing. Then he tried to kiss her, and she bit him.

It came out gradually. I made her lie down on a bright-blue couch and wiped her face with a wet washcloth I'd been careful to soak in warm water. She didn't need any more shocks. The only liquor in the place was an unopened bottle of Japanese plum brandy. I opened it and made both of us take big, disgusting swigs. She didn't want me to call the police, but when I said I should go, she begged me to stay. She wouldn't let go of my arm.

The apartment must have cost a fortune, because among other things, it had a large balcony that looked out over hundreds of rooftops; it reminded me of Paris.

When I'd patted her hand enough and reassured her I'd stick around, she asked me to turn out the lights and sit next to her. The moon was full and lit the room with its own smooth blue light.

I sat on the thick carpet next to the couch and looked out at the winter night. I felt good and strong. Later, when she touched my shoulder and thanked me again in a low, sleepy voice, I felt like thanking her. For the first time in weeks I felt valuable again. A human being who had for once stepped out of his own selfishness to help another.

I woke up the next morning on the floor, but a heavy wool blanket was over me and one of the soft pillows from the couch was under my head. I looked toward the balcony; she was out there. She'd put on a robe and fixed her hair.

"Hello?"

She turned and smiled lopsidedly. One side of her mouth was swollen and purple, and I saw she'd been holding an ice pack to it.

"You're up." She came in and slid the glass door shut behind her. Although the balloon lip distorted her face, it appeared she had one of those incredible Irish-white complexions that go so well with deep green eyes, which she also happened to have. Big eyes. Great eyes. Her nose was small and nondescript, but strawberry-blond hair framed her narrow face and made it a wonderful one, in spite of the smudge-purple lip.

She took the ice pack away, and her tongue snuck out to give the spot a lick. She winced when she touched it. "How many rounds does it look like I boxed?"

"How are you? Are you all right?"

"Yes, thanks to you I'm all right. After you live in New York for a while, you stop thinkin' there are any heroes left, you know what I mean? You proved me wrong. What would you like for breakfast? And would you please tell me your proper name so I don't keep callin' you 'you.' "

"Joseph Lennox. Joe, if you like."

"No, I like Joseph more, if you don't mind. I've never liked nicknames much. What can I give you for breakfast, Mr. Joseph?"

"Anything. Anything's fine."

"Well, from the looks of my icebox, anythin' can be a cantaloupe, or fresh waffles and Canadian bacon, coffee . . ."

"I would love waffles, Karen. I haven't had them in years."

"Good, you got 'em. If you'd like to take a shower, the bathroom's opposite the bedroom. Gee, I'm makin' it sound as if you've got all the time in the world. Can you stay for breakfast? I called the school and told them I was sick. Do you have to be somewhere? It's only eight o'clock."

"No, no, I've got nothing planned. Waffles and coffee sound like the best thing I could do this morning."

Her bathroom looked like World War III. Damp towels on the floor, hand wash hung limply on a clothesline strung across the bathtub; a twisted tube of toothpaste lay in the sink with no cap in sight. I worked my shower around her obstacle course and even cleaned up a little before I left.

The living room was a shock of sunlight and morning warmth; the dining table was full of good things to eat. The orange juice was in thick crystal goblets, and the silverware caught the fierce morning light and bounced it off the walls.

"Joseph, please come and eat before it gets cold. I'm a terrific cook. I made you seven hundred waffles, and you have to eat them all or you'll get a D."

"Are you a teacher?"

"Yes, indeed. Seventh-grade social studies." She made a wry face and flexed her muscles like a strongman in the circus.

She sat down at the table and picked up a fork. We both sat there and watched her hand shake. She slowly put it in her lap. "I'm sorry. Please, though, you go on and start eatin'. I'm sorry, but I'm still scared to death. It's sunny out, and it's over, and no one's goin' to get me now, but I'm scared. It's like havin' a bad chill, you know?"

"Karen, would you like it if I stayed with you today? I'd be glad to."

"Joseph, I would like that very very very very much. Which part of heaven did you say you came from?"

"Vienna."

"Vienna? That's where I was born!"

Vienna, Virginia. Her parents lived near there and raised greyhounds for dog racing. She said they were fine people who had both inherited so much money it confused them.

Karen went to Agnes Scott College in Georgia because her mother had gone there, but she hated everything except her history courses. Richard Hofstadter came to the college and gave a lecture on Jacksonian democracy. She was so overwhelmed by it that she instantly decided to transfer wherever he taught permanently, which turned out to be Columbia University in New York. Totally against her parents' wishes, she applied and was accepted at Barnard. Later she went on to get a master's degree in history at Columbia before she got tired of going to school. She liked New York so much that when she was finished she took a teaching job at a private girls' school in the lower sixties.