"Hello, Kinder, can I sit down?" He slid in next to his wife and kissed her hand. Then he reached over the table and touched me gently on my cheek. His fingers were warm as toast.

"It's been a long time since I was in here. Right before you went to Frankfurt, Joey." He looked around fondly.

It was Paul. It was Paul Tate. He was dead. He was sitting across the table from me, and he was dead.

" 'Men, you may wonder why I've gathered you all here today . . .' No, I won't be dumb now."

"Paul?" India's voice was the chiming of a small clock in a room miles away.

"Let me say what I have to say, love, and you'll understand everything." He smoothed his hair back with one brisk gesture. "You were right, by the way, India. Right all along. When I died I didn't know if it was because of my heart or because of what you two did to it. It doesn't matter. It's over. Now all of my stuff is done, too. All of the Boy, all of the birds and the white Mattys . . . Done. You two betrayed me once and that's unforgivable, but it was because you loved each other. Finally I'm convinced of that. I see it's true now."

Despite his presence, India and I snuck glances across the table to see how we were reacting to that. Especially in light of what we'd just been saying.

"I loved India and could not believe she'd done it. You see, Joe, she really is a true person, no matter how it looks now. You remember that. When she loves you, it's all yours. When I realized what had happened, I wanted to kill you both. Big irony – I died instead. Death wasn't what I thought it would be; I was given the chance to come back and get you guys, and I took it. Brother, did I take it! It was fun at first too, seeing you little bastards screech and run around, really scared. It was. Then, Joe, you kept protecting her. Sticking your neck out so far it should have been cut off ten times. You did everything right and loving, and after a while and a lot of pain, it struck home how much you loved her. You didn't have to come back from New York, but you did. The way you protected her from the dog the other night . . . It showed me you loved her with everything you've got, and I was amazed. You passed the test, if you can call it that, with flying colors, Joey. You convinced even me. So no more Boy. No more of the dead, Goodbye."

He got up, buttoned his overcoat to the neck, and, with a quick wink for both of us, walked out of our lives.

6

One of the famous Lennox family stories goes like this: Right after my father's mother died, my mother made us all go on a picnic to Bear Mountain. She wanted to keep my father as busy as possible, and picnics were a favorite of his. Ross didn't want to go at the last minute, but after a slap and some whispered oaths from the boss, he behaved himself and ended up eating more fried chicken and potato salad than anyone else. When we were done, my father and I went for a walk. I was terribly worried about him and kept thinking of the right thing to say to ease his pain. I was five and there weren't many things I knew how to say, much less well, so when it came I was excited and proud that I had thought it up all by myself.

We sat down on a couple of tree stumps, and I took his hand in mine. Did I have something to tell him!

"Daddy? You know you shouldn't be so sad that Grandma's dead. You know why? Because she's with our Big Father now, the one who takes care of evvveryone. You know who that is, Daddy? He lives up in the sky and his name is D-O-G."

In the days that followed our meeting with Paul, I wondered where he was. If he'd told the truth, where did people go after they died? I now knew one thing for sure – there were choices on that other side of life; things were far more complex there than anyone could imagine. Never once when he was sitting with us had I thought to ask him about it, but afterward I realized he probably wouldn't have said anyway. I was sure of that. It was Paul's way.

D-O-G. I was sorry I'd never had the chance to tell him that story.

7

"Where's Paul's pen?"

She stood in the door of my apartment in a purple rage.

"Do you want to come in?"

"You took it, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"I knew it, you little thief. Where is it?"

"It's on my desk."

"Well, go get it."

"All right, India. Take it easy."

"I don't want to take it easy. I want that pen."

She followed me in. I felt stupid and guilty. Ten-year-old guilt. My head bulged with conflicting ideas and emotions. Paul was gone, but exactly what did that mean? I could go now; I had done my duty to India. When was anything ever that simple? I hadn't answered her question about whether or not she had a "chance" against Karen. If Paul had remained a factor in our lives, I wouldn't have had to answer that question for a long time. Now I did.

"Give me that! Why'd you steal it, anyway?" She shoved it into her pocket and patted it a couple of times to make sure it was there.

"I guess because it was Paul's. I took it right after he died, before anything started to happen, if it makes any difference."

"You could have asked, you know."

"You're right – I could have asked. Do you want to sit down or anything?"

"I don't know. I don't think I like you very much today. What are you planning to do now? What's on your agenda? You could have called me, you know."

"India, back off, huh. Slow down."

Karen in New York; a fifty-fifty chance I could win her back if I left immediately. India in Vienna; free, alone, angry. Angry because she had betrayed the true love of her life for me. Angry because she thought I had come back to her for all the best reasons in the world, only to find at the worst possible time I'd done it out of ninety percent duty and only ten percent love. Angry because her betrayal had caused death and pain and fear and finally, in the end, a future that promised little more than permanent guilt and self-hatred.

Looking at her, I knew all of that and, in an incredible instant of clarity, decided that no matter what happened I would stay with India as long as she needed me. A montage of Karen in bed, at the altar, raising and loving his children, laughing forever at his jokes, came and went, and I told myself I had to believe it didn't matter anymore. India needed me, and the rest of my life would be utterly false and selfish – inexcusable – if I failed her now.

It wasn't martyrdom or altruism or anything as lovely as all that. I would simply be doing what was right for the third or fourth time in my life, and that was good. I realized how naive and unrealistic people are to think you can be both right and happy.

If it happens that way, you are truly one of the blessed. Right, however, should win if you have to choose. A great deal has happened since those thoughts paraded grandly through my head, but I still believe that's true. It is one of the few things I still believe at all.

"Joe, since you'll probably be leaving soon, I want to tell you something. I've been wanting to tell you for a long time, but I haven't. I think you should know, though, because it's important, and no matter what happens with us, I still love you enough to want to help."

"India, can I say something first? I think it might have some bearing –"

"No, not until I've finished. You know me. Whatever you say may take the wind out of my sails, and I'm mad enough at you to let it rip, so just let me, okay?"

"Okay." I tried to smile, but she frowned and shook her head. No smiles allowed. I sat back to let her blow her top, knowing I had the ace up my sleeve the whole time. Was she going to be surprised!

"This pen is part of it. I know why you wanted it. Because it was Paul's, and you wanted it to remind you of Paul's magic. Right? I understand. You're like that, Joe. You want part of everyone's magic, but you're too damned wimpy at heart to reach it the hard way, so you snitch Paul's pen, make love to me –"