3

I wore my cowboy boots the day I flew back. I felt funny in them, the way they canted my whole body this way and that like a drunken ride at an amusement park. But I'd be damned if I'd take them off. I'd packed my bag the night before; it was much fuller than when I'd arrived. My life was fuller than when I'd arrived. But there was India and her agony in Vienna, and a part of me, a new and, I hoped, good part, said notwithstanding the near-happiness I'd recently found, my duty now was to return and do whatever I could to help her, no matter how useless it seemed or how much I wanted to stay with Karen in New York. Even watching Karen that night, so small and defeated on the couch, I knew that for once I had to sacrifice what I wanted for someone else's well-being. Despite my pain at having to leave America, the act itself might end up being the only thing in my life that would make me feel a little better about myself. What Karen had said was true – it wasn't right, but it was necessary. Our parting was bad and tearful. At the last moment we almost succumbed to it by sleeping together for the first and only time. Luckily we had enough strength of heart to avoid the mess that would have created.

People think of Austria as a snowy, Winter Wonderland sort of country; it is, except for Vienna, which rarely has much snow in the winter. Yet the day I flew in, there was such a bad blizzard that we were diverted to Linz and had to take a train the rest of the way. It was snowing in Linz, too, when we arrived, but it was a crisp, light snow and the flakes came down lazily, at their leisure. Vienna was under attack. Winds made traffic lights jerk and twist on their cables. There were long lines of taxis at the train station, all of them wearing chains and covered with snow. My cabdriver couldn't get over the storm and spent the ride telling me about some poor man who'd been found frozen to death in his house, and how a roof collapsed at a movie theater under the weight of the snow . . . It all reminded me of one of my father's letters.

I was expecting a cold, dead apartment, but the instant I opened the door, the smells of spicy roast chicken and radiator heat surprised me completely.

"Hail the returning hero!"

India looked as if she'd come back from a month in Mauritius.

"You're so tan!"

"Yeah, I've discovered tanning studios. How do I look? Are you going to put your bags down or are you waiting for a tip?"

I put them down, and she came over and hugged me for dear life. I hugged back, but unlike the time with my father, I let go first.

"Let me look at you. Did you get mugged in New York? Talk to me! I've been waiting to hear your voice for two months –"

"India –"

"I was so afraid the snow was going to keep you away. I called the airport so many times they finally got me a private answering service. Say something, Joey. Did you have a million adventures? I want to hear about all of them right now." Everything came out in a machine-gun stutter. She'd barely catch her breath before the next sentence flashed out of her as if it were afraid it wouldn't get its chance before the next one came trampling through.

"– I decided to come over here and cook because –"

"India?"

"– and I knew . . . What, Joey? Is the Great Silent One going to say something?"

I put a hand on each of her shoulders and held her tight. "India, I'm back. I'm here. Take it easy, pal."

"What do you mean, take it easy?" She stopped with her mouth halfway open. She shivered as if the cold outside had pierced her. The basting brush she'd been holding in her hand fell to the floor. "Oh, Joe, I was so afraid you wouldn't come back."

"I'm here."

"Yes, you really are. Hello, pulcino."

"Hello, India."

We smiled, and she dropped her head to her chest. She shook it from side to side, and I gripped her more tightly.

"I'm home, India." I said it softly, a good night to a child you're tucking in.

"You're a good man, Joey. You didn't have to come back."

"Let's not talk about it. I'm here."

"Okay. How about some chicken?"

"I'm ready."

Our meal went well; by the time we'd finished, both of us were much happier. I told her about New York, but not about Karen. That was for some other time.

"Let me see how you look. Stand up."

She checked me out carefully, reminding me of someone looking over a used car before they bought it.

"You're not any fatter, God knows, but your face looks good. New York did you good, huh? How do I look? Like Judith Anderson with a tan, right?"

I sat down and picked up my wineglass. "You look . . . I don't know, India. You look the way I thought you would."

"And how's that?"

"Tired. Scared."

"Bad, huh?"

"Yeah, kind of bad."

"I thought the tan would hide me." She shoved back from the table and put her napkin over her head. It covered her eyes completely.

"India?"

"Don't bother me now. I'm crying."

"India, do you want to tell me about what's been happening or do you want to wait a while?" I pulled the napkin away and saw her eyes were wet.

"Why did I make you come back? What good will it do? I couldn't get Paul; I couldn't talk with him. He came and he came and he came, and each time there was a moment when I actually had the guts to say, 'Wait, Paul. Listen to me!' But it was so stupid. So fucking stupid."

I took her hand, and she squeezed mine in a scared vise.

"Everything is shit, Joe. He won't go away. He's having so goddamned much fun. What can I do? Joey, what am I going to do?"

I spoke as gently as I could. "What have you done so far?"

"Everything. Nothing. Gone to a palmist. A medium. Read books. Prayed." She brushed the air with her hand, dismissing it all with a contemptuous wave. "India Tate, ghost hunter."

"I don't know what to say to you."

"Say, 'India, here I am back with a million answers to every one of your questions.' Say, Til kick out the ghosts and I'll warm up your bed again, and just ask me 'cause I'm your Answer Man.' " She looked at me sadly, knowing my answer even before I gave it.

"The sun is ninety-three million miles from the earth. The pitcher's mound is ninety-feet from home plate. Carol Reed directed The Third Man. How are those for answers?"

She picked up a fork and tapped me on the back of the hand with it. "You're a jerk, Joe, but you're a nice jerk. Can I ask a favor?"

I'm not an intuitive person, but this time I knew what she was going to say before she said it. I was right.

"Can we go to bed?" As if she knew I'd hesitate, she didn't wait for an answer. Getting up from the table, she moved toward the bedroom door without looking at me. "Leave the lights on in here. I don't like to think of the house dark these days."

That last sentence struck me hard, and still not knowing what I'd do when I got there, I followed her.

On the plane I'd resolved not to sleep with India when I returned. A private promise to myself to remain true to Karen, however sophomoric that seemed. I felt that, if I kept that promise, somehow Karen would know or sense it in that profound and mysterious way women are capable of sensing things, and it would reassure her when we got back together again. I didn't know when that reunion would take place, but I was sure it would.

The familiar glow of the familiar lamp in that familiar room. India was taking two small brown combs out of her hair and had already unbuttoned the top brass button of her jeans. I could see the top line of white on her underpants. I stood in the doorway and tried not to watch or respond to the casual sensuality of her actions. For a moment, while her arms were raised high and angled over her head, she stopped and looked at me with a combination of desire and hope that made her look sixteen years old and open to everything in the world. How unfair! It wasn't right for her to show me this side of her when all I wanted to do was help, not love, her. I felt the pulse in my throat and was scared by the extravagance of my heart's response.