• • •

They led me to a plush chair in a sitting room, facing a roomful of women, all in their sixties, seventies, and eighties, all remarkable in their elegance. The woman who met me at the door sat last, in a chair directly across from me. There was a quiet power in the room, like a historical gathering of senators’ wives, or the near future’s assembly of retired senators. The walls were painted bright red, a shade between scarlet and rose. It was a strange, soothing color, almost pulsatile. The lower halves of the walls were paneled with white wood. I was the only man in the room.

A lady in an apron and bonnet entered, carrying teacups on a silver tray.

“Thank you, Beatrice,” the aristocratic woman said. I decided to think of her as Ms. Silver, since actual names seemed to be taboo at these events. Mr. Bones and Ms. Silver. Apparently I was living in a giant game of Clue. She took a cup.

Beatrice held the tray to me.

“Enjoy,” Ms. Silver said.

I nodded, and we both sipped.

“So,” she said finally, “are you comfortable?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Do you have any questions for us?”

They were messing with me. I was sure of it. I decided to maintain some semblance of control by avoiding the one million obvious questions I wanted to ask.

“What color are the walls?”

She looked slightly surprised.

“Amaranth. Like the poem. ‘With these, that never fade, the spirits elect. Bind their resplendent locks.’ John Milton.” She shrugged.

In retrospect, I felt stupid for asking about paint.

I felt all eyes on me. No one else had spoken yet. There were a lot of women in the room, but a fair number of them were shadowed; I could make out only the lines of their long faces.

I started to fidget.

“Relax.” Ms. Silver smiled. “We don’t need to rush.” Was she channeling Barry White? Slow down, baby, take it easy. I thought: if tonight ends with an orgy of eighty-year-olds, I’m out. You’ve got to draw the line somewhere.

She sipped her tea. I did the same. We sat in silence for a long time and finished our drinks.

I was growing warm, relaxed.

“How do you feel, Jeremy?” she asked pleasantly. Her voice sounded lighter now, breezy.

“Good,” I said. I noticed a pleasant buzzing in my fingers and toes. My voice sounded far away.

“Good,” she said, watching me with a slight smile. She swept her hair again, those long, graceful fingers riding along the curve of her ear.

The room was rotating slowly. I heard the whoosh of my pulse.

I laughed.

“What’s funny, Jeremy?”

It sounded like three people asked me the question at once.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“That’s okay.” She smiled broadly. Her teeth were perfectly white. I liked her so much.

She watched me a little longer. One of the ladies nodded. Ms. Silver leaned back in her chair, draped her slender arms over the armrests, inclined her head.

“Jeremy, we’re friends, right?”

“Yes,” I said, smiling.

“I have a question for you. You will be honest with me, won’t you?” There was a touch of hurt in her voice.

“Of course,” I said.

“I’m wondering, have you ever committed a crime?”

I felt a rush of surprise and anger. I opened my mouth to say no.

“Yes,” I said.

“Oh dear,” she purred. “What did you do?”

“When I was thirteen,” I said, “I stole a pair of shoes from the store.”

“Oh my. And what else?”

“When I was fifteen, my friends and I cut down a stop sign and took it.”

“Hmm. Those aren’t so bad. Why don’t you tell me more?”

I wanted to close my mouth. I couldn’t tell if I did or not. The questions continued. I was sleepy. I drifted in and out of the conversation, but I could hear myself still talking somewhere.

I snapped to when she said, “Jeremy, are you a virgin?” leaning back so her blouse strained against her breasts.

I felt blood rush to my cheeks. I thought No in my head, but my lips formed the word Yes.

Something about my parents, she asked. I nodded off. When I came awake, we were talking about my secrets. Is there something I would be upset about if someone else found out?

Ms. Silver. She was pretty. I kept smiling at her. The other ladies were lost in the shadows. How long had we been here?

“What’s your biggest fear?” she asked casually, arching her eyebrows with polite curiosity, stretching those long thin lips into a mildly interested smile.

I heard myself answer. I was already asleep, which was too bad. I really wanted to hear what I said.

Strange dreams: a Chinese dragon, blue-gold with wobbly eyes. A hand with a door in it. The moon, opening to spill its contents.

I woke up with my face on the floor. It felt rough. I was cold. It hurt to move. My eyes opened slowly. I saw dirt, leaves. My mouth was dry, my throat ached. I coughed dust out of my mouth. I tried to move my arms and legs: fire shot up the tracks of my nerves.

I saw sideways trees, felt wind, nothing else.

My head was clearing. I pulled myself up slowly.

I was wearing only underwear.

I rubbed my eyes, shook off the cobwebs. I could see no buildings, just trees to the horizon, yellow and red leaves. I’m in the woods.

After a while, I tried standing up.

Wobbly, but then better.

Pine needles stung my bare feet.

I tried walking heel to toe. Better.

I started off in no particular direction.

My head cleared as I walked. I remembered vague images from the night before: the soccer mom, the limo, a roomful of women. And now I’d been dumped in the middle of the woods, stripped to my underwear.

I’d heard about things like this, back in Texas, actually. In the old days, before lawsuits got rid of the real hazing, fraternities would sometimes strip their pledges down, blindfold them, and drop them alone in the middle of the woods, with only a hunting knife and a quarter. Or so we told each other in high school, since everybody had a friend with an older brother who swore it was true.

Well, I didn’t have a knife or a quarter. What kind of a budget operation were they running up here?

And then that old, suspicious thought from Mr. Bones’s house popped back into my head. This all seemed too boorish for the V &D. Were they mocking me? Another satire of my roots, like the trailer park bimbo hanging on to Mr. Bones? Or was this just another paranoid chip on my shoulder-too little sleep, too much wacky tea?

I was feeling woozy. Judging by the sun, I’d started walking around eight a.m., and now it was past noon. I hadn’t eaten since lunch yesterday.

I saw a highway in the distance and stumbled toward it.

An hour later, I approached a lonely, run-down building on the side of the road.

I pushed the door open and stepped into a filthy room, me and my underwear. A few haggard men were sitting at tables alone, drinking. A couple of bikers talked in the back. They all looked up at me.

The bartender wore an undershirt with grease stains on it.

“Son,” he said, “you’re in the wrong bar.”

That’s when I passed out on his floor.