This combination of theft and magic disturbed Nellie. She and Nailles gave a cocktail party that afternoon and she didn't have a chance to show him the letter. The party was excellent. It is difficult to praise a cocktail party but as a hostess Nellie deserved praise. There was no fatuity in the pride she took in her house. The pleasant rooms seemed to be partly illuminated by her graces. The sixteen or seventeen guests were people whose company she unreservedly enjoyed. The food and liquor were splendid and nothing banal, boring or asinine was said. Charlie Wentworth, sitting close to Martha Tuckerman on the sofa, shared with Martha a flash of immortal longing. Looking into one another's eyes it suddenly seemed to them both that a life together would be paradise. They would laugh at one another's jokes, warm one another's bones, travel to Japan. Martha left the sofa then and joined her husband at the bar. This was the closest anyone came to adulterous passion. The only difficulty was that Nailles had a circular driveway and without Tony-who was, of course, in bed-to direct traffic, the parking was haphazard. Nailles spent the last half hour of the party either moving cars or asking people to move them. Everyone had gone by eight. They had some scrambled eggs and sausage in the kitchen and Nellie showed Nailles the letter.

"Oh, my God," he said, "she was the one who stole, wasn't she? Maybe it's a ring of thieves. Maybe the Swami's an accomplice. Magic is the only thing we haven't tried but I'm not up to it."

Nailles's struggle to get into the city on the train had become so acute that he finally had gone to Dr. Mullin, who prescribed a massive tranquilizer. He took this each morning with his coffee, telling Nellie that it was a vitamin pill. The tranquilizer gave him the illusion that he floated upon a cloud like Zeus in some allegorical painting. Standing on the platform waiting for the 7:46 he seemed surrounded by his cloud. When the train came in he picked up his cloud and settled himself in a window seat. If the day was dark, the landscape wintry, the little towns they passed shabby and depressing, none of this reached to where he lay in his rosy nimbus. He seemed to float down the tracks into Grand Central, beaming a vast and slightly absentminded smile at poverty, sickness, wealth, the beauty of strange women, the rain and the snow.

On the morning after the party Nellie was waked by the sound of gunfire.

There had been riots in the slums and she wondered for a moment if the militants had decided to march out of the ghetto and take the white houses of Chestnut Lane by force. Nailles was not in bed and she went to the window. What she saw was Nailles in his underpants on their broad lawn, firing his shotgun at an immense snapping turtle. The sun had not risen but the sky was light and in this pure and subtle light the undressed man and the prehistoric turtle seemed engaged in some primordial and comical battle. Nailles raised his gun and fired at the turtle. The turtle recoiled, collapsed and then slowly raised itself up like a sea tortoise and began to lumber towards her husband. She had never seen, outside a zoo, so big a reptile, but it was Nailles, not the reptile, who seemed out of place in the early light. It was the turtle's lawn, the turtle's sky, the turtle's creation, and Nailles seemed to have wandered mistakenly onto the scene. He fired again and missed. He fired again and she saw the turtle's huge head swung to one side by the charge of buckshot. He fired again, put his gun on the grass and picked the turtle up by its jagged tail.

"Oh darling, are you sure it's dead," she called down from the window.

"Yes," he said. He seemed surprised to see her at the window. "It's dead. Its neck is broken."

"Where do you suppose it came from?"

"The bog, I guess. It must be a hundred years old. I got up to go to the bathroom and I saw it crossing the lawn. At first I thought I was dreaming. The shell must be three feet long. It could hurt a child or kill a dog. I'll bury it later."

In the bedroom Nailles, his right ear ringing from the gun and his right hand shaking a little, knocked a tranquilizer, his last, into his hand but his hand was trembling so that the tranquilizer fell to the floor and rolled under a piece of furniture. Nailles waited until Nellie had left the room. He bent a metal coathanger into the shape of a hook and lying on the floor he tried to recapture the pill. The piece of furniture-a dressing table-was flush to the floor and darkness concealed his pill. He hooked two pennies and a button. He then took the lamps off the top of the dressing table and moved it away from the wall. It was a heavy piece of furniture with loaded drawers and was a struggle to move, and when he got it away from the wall there was no pill but there was a crack in the flooring into which it must have fallen. He ran his coathanger along the crack but his only catch was dirt.

The thought of taking the train without a pill gave him all the symptoms of panic. His breathing was quick and his lips swollen. The place pain took in his memory was curious-he thought he had no memory for pain-but now the agony, confusion and humiliation of getting off at Greenacres and again at Lascalles, of getting off at Clear Haven and again at Turandot-returned to him with nearly the intensity of fact. He could not do it. Courage had nothing to do with his suffering. If he forced himself to go to the station he knew he would be unable to board the 7:46. Cold baths, self-discipline, prayer, all seemed like the moral paraphernalia of his first year in the Boy Scouts. He had to get into the city to fend for Nellie and his son. If he could not get into the city they would be defenseless and he imagined them as besieged by enemies -cold, hunger and fear-refugees from a burned city. He took a cold shower on the chance that this might help, but water had no calming effect on his image of the 7:46 as a portable abyss. He didn't know what hours the doctor kept but he knew that he had to get a new prescription before he did anything else.

The doctor's office was in a development of two-story apartments called garden apartments although there were no gardens to be seen. He rang and a man in pajamas opened the door.

"I must have the wrong address," Nailles said.

"You looking for the doctor?"

"Yes. It's terribly important. It's an emergency. It's a matter of life and death."

"You got the right place but he's not in practice any more," the stranger said. "The county medical society closed him down three weeks ago. He's doing laboratory work in the city."

"What happened?"

"Pills. He was giving out all sorts of illegal pills. But I'm right in the middle of my breakfast…"

"I'm sorry," Nailles said. He could drive into the city, or could he? He could take a bus. He could take a taxi. A man spoke to him from a car parked beside his. "You looking for the doctor?"

"God yes," Nailles said, "God yes."

"What was he giving you?"

"I don't know the name of it. It was for the train."

"What color?"

"Gray and yellow. It was a capsule, half gray and half yellow."

"I know what it was. You want some?"

"God yes, God yes."

"I'll meet you in the Catholic cemetery, out on Laurel Avenue. You know the one I mean. There's a statue of a soldier."

Nailles got to the cemetery before the stranger. It was an old-fashioned place with many statues, but the monument to the soldier stood a head taller than the host of stone angels and was easy to find. Gravediggers worked in the distance. Nailles had guessed that graves were dug by engines, but these men worked with a shovel and pickax. He passed an array of motley angels-some of them life-sized, some of them dwarfs. Some of them stood on the tombs they blessed with half-furled wings, some of them clung with furled wings to the cross. The soldier wore the uniform of 1918-a soup-plate helmet, puttees, baggy pants, and he held in his right hand, butt to the ground, a Springfield, bolt-action, 1912. He had been carved from a white stone that had not discolored at all but it had eroded, obscuring his features and his insignia so that he looked like a ghost. The stranger joined Nailles, holding a few tulips that he must have stolen somewhere. He put these into a container in front of the ghostly infantryman and said: "Twenty-five dollars."