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  The only times he didn’t feel like an intruder, but like the very whirling axis of their lives, were the times he got into trouble and caused them trouble. When it was found in his freshman year at U High that he had been cutting classes for weeks, when it came out a year later that he was the mysterious decimator of the school library, with a cache of unstamped books on the floor of his closet, when it was discovered that he was the founder and guiding genius of the widespread and lucrative football pool the school principal had been trying in vain to stamp out, then their evenings turned into long tearful family confrontations. What Nan and Richard said during these sessions was confusing: at first they threatened to stop paying for his analysis if he didn’t give up his antisocial behavior. But at the end, at the reconciliation, they said he needed more intensive treatment, and that they would all go together to talk to Dr. Crewes. Those discussions caused him pain and anger and remorse, yet when they were over Paul felt a satisfactory sense of wholeness. He pulsed with energy and appetite; while his parents crept to bed weary and enervated, Paul would fix himself a triple-decker sandwich and a glass of milk, and eat voraciously. Then he rested, complacent in the knowledge that thoughts of him would keep them lying awake for hours.

  Still, despite the trouble he used to cause them (he had been somewhat better lately—the result of good treatment, his father claimed as he puffed on his pipe), he knew they were happy. It was a quiet life, but they appeared to thrive on it. A quiet life indeed; a year ago he used to rage over it in his sessions with Dr. Crewes, caricaturing it with contempt as a suffocating, middle-class, middle-of-the-road, mediocre dead life. But Dr. Crewes had helped him deal with those feelings of rage and rebellion. When he was grown, Dr. Crewes said, he could lead whatever sort of life he chose. Meanwhile, in their home, he must have some respect for their preferences, which were in fact his parents’ ways of dealing with their own needs and hostilities and fears. Paul was stunned by that profound insight. He glimpsed a baffling world where every attitude was a way of dealing with the attitude beneath it; as time passed, attitudes heaped up in stratified layers like geological formations. Social criticism had no place in the analyst’s office. Gradually he gave up his scorn. To understand all is to forgive all, somebody once said. They seemed so happy and settled, it was uselessly cruel to keep battering at the walls of their comfort. They called each other dear and darling and did small favors for each other like making cups of tea or fetching newspapers, with glowing benign faces that seemed to portray an utter and wholesome rightness. They had found their center, he thought, borrowing Dr. Crewes’ phrase. They were all center, no movable electrons.

  Then this mad dash to the periphery, this flying apart, must be some form of illness, like a virus, that could attack and disjoint the entire system. But like a virus it could go away just as mysteriously as it had come. As he walked and mulled it over, stepping carefully on the slippery sheet of ice underfoot, Paul became fervently convinced it would go away. It was some sort of emotional disruption in his father, certainly, and it would have to be dealt with, but it was not anything that came from the center.

  He entered his apartment building with relief, chilled to the bone. His lips were stiff and chapped. It must be below twenty degrees out there, and God knows what with the windchill factor. Perhaps he should have taken the bus. But at least he had thought things through a little. He had faith now that it would all work out eventually. Just a half hour ago he had imagined the session with Dr. Crewes was a waste of time, yet after going over the facts he felt much better. He recalled some of the things Dr. Crewes had said, and they seemed quite perceptive. Very often, in his long experience, the sessions did seem a waste of time, and then later he would realize how much had actually been accomplished. The sessions had a delayed effect, like some medications. It was all very intriguing. Maybe he would study medicine after all and go into psychiatry rather than music. With his background he had a head start.

  He was almost smiling as he got off the elevator. He walked briskly, stuffing his damp gloves in his pockets and looking forward to a hot dinner. It might not work out right away, he mustn’t expect miracles, but he couldn’t be deceived by the happy tableau they had presented for so long. Berkeley was absurd, as he had thought at the beginning. What you see, you see because it is there. Meanwhile he ought to comfort his mother and explain things to her. Caution her about trying to rush things one way or the other. Nan was like that. Once a decision was made she immediately had to do tangible acts to certify it, as if it might slip through her fingers. He remembered how, when she and Richard decided last September to go to Barbados over Christmas, she had rushed out to buy new luggage. Paul unlocked the door and stepped into the hall. It was dark.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes. I’m in here, Paul.”

  He flicked the hall switch—a warm glow of light filled the tidy narrow space. Nan was curled up on the living room couch doing nothing, not even reading the paper that lay spread out in her lap. She was tall and dark blond, rather like Dr. Crewes, but older and fairer in complexion. She had a pleasant, squarish face with thin lines of anxiety around the eyes and the small mouth. She could look quite attractive, Paul always imagined, if she wore clothes with some dash. But as though unaware of the passage of time, Nan wore the placid styles of her youth two decades ago, shirtwaist dresses, pleated skirts, and shoes with high thin heels. She wore pearls and clip-on earrings and used hair spray. Still, he thought uncomfortably, she was not the kind of woman to drive a man away. She was warm and capable and easy to be with. If he were his father, he would think he hadn’t done so badly after all those years.

  “Hi,” he said. “Why are you sitting here in the dark?” He turned on another light, then followed her fixed stare across the large room.

  Stunned, Paul saw why she wasn’t speaking. There was a huge nude space in the corner near the window where the piano should have been. Three hollows in the rug where the legs had rested.

  “Shit!” he screamed. He tore off his coat, threw it onto the floor with his books, and rushed to the space as if the piano could spring back, conjured by the pressure of his lanky body. “Shit! He can’t do that!” And he let out a long howl. He could feel the blood rushing and pounding in his chest, his face growing unbearably hot. This was how it always happened, starting with the rush of blood. There were no words for this storming bloody torrent. He thrashed around looking for objects to attack and hurl.

  “Paul,” his mother said quietly. She didn’t sound restraining, only tired. “Paul, don’t, please don’t go into that. I’m too worn out. I couldn’t stand it.”

  He stood quivering like a besieged animal.

  “Thank you. Come here and sit down by me.” She patted the cushion next to her. “Can you?”

  He obeyed, sat down next to her on the couch, and sobbed loudly again.

  “Paul, I am so sorry. Really I am. I am so sorry for what this is doing to you.”

  “What about you? What are you going to do about it?”

  “I don’t know,” she said in a high voice. She ran both hands through her fine hair, pulling it all back from her face so that for an instant she looked austere. “I’ve been thinking that I’ll go back into treatment. I could go back to Dr. Steinberg. He was always very supportive.” She pressed the fingertips of both hands together, forming a little spired temple. “To find out what I’ve done, why this is happening. I’m totally in the dark. Oh, I know I’ve made a lot of mistakes, that I have certain ways. ... I’m sure some things must have driven him crazy. But still—”

  “I meant,” he cried, “what are you going to do about the piano?”

  “Oh, the piano. I don’t know. What can I do? He did it while we were both out. I came home a little while ago and found it gone. He took all his clothes too.” She spoke calmly, as if from a vacant space inside.

  “I have to get the piano back. Where is it?”

  “In his apartment, I guess.”

  “What apartm
ent?”

  “Didn’t he tell you? He’s got an apartment with this Cheryl, on Dorchester. He arranged it all last month, before we knew.”

  Paul hung his head over his knees. “He can’t get away with this,” he mumbled.

  “Would you like some dinner?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t feel like eating anymore.”

  “I’ll make something anyway. You’ve got to try.”

  It was odd seeing her in the tiny kitchen by herself. They had always done their fancy dishes together. Paul watched from the living room: Nan moved in slow motion, opening cabinets with faltering hands and a vague air, very slowly taking cans and boxes off the shelves and staring at their labels for long moments as if she had never seen them before. Then she opened the refrigerator door and stood looking inside it for a long time. Paul stared at her back; her shoulders began to shake as though she had opened the door onto a pathetic scene.

  “Oh, forget it, you don’t have to cook.”

  She finally removed something wrapped in aluminum foil and let go of the door. “No, it’s all right. I’ve got to get used to it. This is some chicken Kiev left from yesterday. He made it, actually. You see—” and she tossed her head archly—“he leaves something of himself with us.”

  “How long have you known?” he asked her while they ate.

  “A week. I wanted him to tell you before, to give you some time, but he said no. He insisted. A clean swift break was what he wanted. It’s been absolute hell, knowing all week and not being able to tell you. He’s not himself, Paul, this cruelty, this coldness. That bothers me more than anything else. It’s like a sickness. I think he’s psychotic. I really do. I think he’s sick. It has to do with his mother. He needs help.”

  The food was sticking in his throat. Everything he ate felt, dry and scratchy as straw. He kept taking gulps of milk to wash it down, but he could still feel the lumps lying heavily in his chest. “I’m going over there tomorrow to get the piano back. You’ll give me the address.”

  His mother pushed her plate away and got up. “I’m going to call him.” She brushed a few crumbs off her blouse and caught them in the palm of her hand. Paul realized how wan and weary she looked. Her face was shiny, her lipstick faded, and her skirt wrinkled as though it had been crushed underfoot. “I can’t just let it fall apart like this. It’s too hasty. It doesn’t make any sense. Maybe I can talk to him about it.” Nan went to the phone.

  “Wait. What if she answers?”

  “Her?” His mother smiled wryly. “I don’t care a thing about her. As far as I’m concerned, she doesn’t exist. I’ve met her, you know, around the university. We once discussed Karen Horney. Isn’t that funny? She’s nothing at all. Just young.”

  “So why ...?”

  Nan tilted her head and gave him a peculiar look that he couldn’t decipher, almost a grin, as she raised the receiver. She took a folded piece of paper from her pocket. “His number. How do you like that? I’ve got to consult a scrap of paper to telephone your father.”

  Evidently the girl didn’t answer, since his mother began talking right away. “Richard, it’s me. Look, Richard ...” Her voice was shaking, cajoling and vulnerable. Paul felt flushed; he began clearing the table noisily to drown out her words, while his ears strained to hear above the clatter. Nan waved her hand at him to be quiet.

  “Richard, look, I’m not calling to pester you or whine, believe me. I want what’s best for you. I mean, whatever you think is right for your particular needs. But I think, I’ve been thinking, this has all been too fast—I mean, I can’t absorb it. Can’t we get together and talk about it, just so it isn’t so abrupt? Maybe,” she added timidly, “even see someone about it, together?”

  A very short silence. His mother sat down quickly, perched on a hard chair. Paul scraped the leavings of the two plates into the garbage can.

  “All right. But, Richard, can I tell you one thing? Before you get all involved in your—your new life, as you call it, Richard, think about what you’re doing. It isn’t so simple. You have a ... a problem, this is an emotional crisis. Try to see it that way, Richard. I think you need help. Maybe you should go back to see Dr. Jonas alone, have a consultation.”

  Another silence. Her lips twitched. “You’ve never talked like that. That’s what makes me think—”

  Then, after a dead pause, “All right, if that’s how you’ve decided it’s going to be, I’ll call a lawyer in the morning.” She hung up.

  Paul was holding a pot half-filled with reheated rice. He walked slowly into the living room. “But you didn’t mention the piano!”

  “He’s really finished. He said ... incredible things.”

  “The piano!” he shrieked.

  “The piano,” she repeated, as if it were an unfamiliar word. “Oh, the piano. I’m sorry.”

  He dumped the rice on the carpet, at her feet, and slammed the pot down after it. Then he grabbed his coat. As he went out the door he glimpsed Nan sinking slowly to her knees and scooping up handfuls of rice.

  He skipped school the next day and walked all the way to the Point and back. There had been a thaw after yesterday’s rain, so that the gutters were running with slush. At about seven he went to his father’s place. It was a sleek new apartment building, steel and glass. The doorman stopped him to ask his name and destination, and Paul laughed curtly as he replied. When he got up to the sixth floor his father was at the apartment door, waiting.

  “Paul.”

  “I came for the piano.”

  “Paul, you can’t carry it away.”

  “Aren’t you going to let me in? I’m kind of cold.”

  His father stepped aside. The girl was sitting cross-legged on the floor, leaning against a pile of crammed cartons. They were apparently in the middle of their dinner, which was Kentucky Fried Chicken. A large paper bucket bearing the face of the jovial colonel lay on its side, spewing out chicken parts and discarded bones. They were drinking wine out of paper cups, Bolla Soave, the same kind his father and Nan drank at home. The girl was pretty much what Paul had expected. It was reassuring yet eerie to see his banal predictions verified. She had short straight black hair that fell in bangs to her green-shadowed eyelids, and she wore a long red and green flowered gypsy dress with a round neck. Silver earrings dangled nearly to her shoulders. Her bare feet, sticking out from under the dress, were very small and delicate. But she was plumper than Paul had envisioned. She had enormous breasts. Paul imagined his father’s head nuzzling the huge breasts while the girl lay naked on the bare wood floor, her legs raised and parted. She wiped the chicken grease off her lips and hands and stood up.

  “Cheryl, my son Paul.”

  Cheryl came towards him smiling, extending a hand.

  Paul turned away from her. “I want to talk to you.”

  “Cheryl, would you mind?” It was a disgrace—he was apologetic.

  Cheryl went into another room and closed the door behind her. Paul hadn’t heard the sound of her voice.

  The apartment was cluttered yet looked bare and unlived in—it could be adapted to any pattern of life his father and this Cheryl fell into. Odd pieces of furniture, cartons, shopping bags, a broom and dustpan, were placed haphazardly, like litter. Looking around, Paul recognized with a slight shock two bridge chairs, a brass magazine rack, a straw wastebasket.

  “Where is it?”

  Richard finally shut the front door. “Where is what?”

  “You know, the piano.”

  “Oh, in the living room. This way.”

  It stood alone in a large room that was empty except for a cream-colored shag rug on the floor and two more bridge chairs from home.

  “Didn’t she bring any bridge chairs of her own?”

  Richard cleared his throat and patted his graying hair. “Look, believe me, I know this confrontation is very difficult for you.”

  “Oh, never mind that crap. I really didn’t think you’d do it. I didn’t realize what a bastard you were underneath.” />
  Richard paled. “Well,” he said coldly, “take it. No one’s stopping you.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll have a mover here tomorrow. I’m taking the day off from school.”

  “Paul.” His father motioned to one of the old bridge chairs. “Let’s start again. Sit down. Please.” Richard sat. His stomach, as he settled in the small chair, sagged with flab, despite all his running. He was so pathetic that finally Paul sat down too.

  Richard’s thinning hair was tousled. Paul wondered if she had rumpled it in a moment of affection. In his white shirt, dark trousers, and silver-rimmed glasses, his father resembled the benevolent village druggist Paul had often seen advertising toothpaste on television.

  “I think I’m going to laugh,” said Paul. “You and her.” He motioned with a flip of his hand towards the door where Cheryl had disappeared. He expected, hoped, his father would respond angrily again, but Richard only nodded, as if it were the most natural coupling in the world.

  “Are you feeling all right, Paul? Have you talked it over with Dr. Crewes? Don’t hold anything back. Tell her what it’s doing to you. It’s best to get it out, you know that. You think I’m a bastard, fine, tell her. Say anything. She’ll help you deal with it.” His mother was right. Richard spoke in a tinny mechanical way, as if his real self were elsewhere. Once again Paul was forced to think he must be sick.

  With pity he went over to Richard and put a hand on his shoulder. “What is it that’s making you do this to us?” he asked kindly.

  It was past eleven when Paul left for home. They had had a long and, he felt, meaningful talk. They both cried, Paul copiously, Richard joining in as one might to be sociable. At around nine Cheryl had padded into the room tentatively, but Paul shook his head, no, so Richard motioned her away. About an hour later they moved into the other room, where at Richard’s suggestion Paul ate some cold Kentucky Fried Chicken. Then Cheryl, who must have entered the living room by another route, began playing a Scarlatti sonata on the piano. Richard closed the door.