Of course, you can't literally think like this all the time, or you'd drive yourself crazy. And so for most lawyers, a house is, finally, just a house, something to fill and fix and repaint and empty. But there's a period in which every law student-every good law student-finds that their vision shifts, somehow, and realizes that the law is inescapable, that no interaction, no aspect of daily life, escapes its long, graspy fingers. A street becomes a shocking disaster, a riot of violations and potential civil lawsuits. A marriage looks like a divorce. The world becomes temporarily unbearable.

He could do this. He could take a case and see its end; it is very difficult to do, because you have to be able to hold in your head all the possibilities, all the probable consequences, and then choose which ones to worry over and which to ignore. But what he also did-what he couldn't stop himself from doing-was wonder as well about the moral implications of the case. And that is not helpful in law school. There were colleagues of mine who wouldn't let their students even say the words "right" and "wrong." "Right has nothing to do with it," one of my professors used to bellow at us. "What is the law? What does the law say?" (Law professors enjoy being theatrical; all of us do.) Another, whenever the words were mentioned, would say nothing, but walk over to the offender and hand him a little slip of paper, a stack of which he kept in his jacket's inside pocket, that read: Drayman 241. Drayman 241 was the philosophy department's office.

Here, for example, is a hypothetical: A football team is going to an away game when one of their vans breaks down. So they ask the mother of one of the players if they can borrow her van to transport them. Sure, she says, but I'm not going to drive. And so she asks the assistant coach to drive the team for her. But then, as they're driving along, something horrible happens: the van skids off the road and flips over; everyone inside dies.

There is no criminal case here. The road was slippery, the driver wasn't intoxicated. It was an accident. But then the parents of the team, the mothers and fathers of the dead players, sue the owner of the van. It was her van, they argue, but more important, it was she who appointed the driver of her van. He was only her agent, and therefore, it is she who bears the responsibility. So: What happens? Should the plaintiffs win their suit?

Students don't like this case. I don't teach it that often-its extremity makes it more flashy than it is instructive, I believe-but whenever I did, I would always hear a voice in the auditorium say, "But it's not fair!" And as annoying as that word is-fair-it is important that students never forget the concept. "Fair" is never an answer, I would tell them. But it is always a consideration.

He never mentioned whether something was fair, however. Fairness itself seemed to hold little interest for him, which I found fascinating, as people, especially young people, are very interested in what's fair. Fairness is a concept taught to nice children: it is the governing principle of kindergartens and summer camps and playgrounds and soccer fields. Jacob, back when he was able to go to school and learn things and think and speak, knew what fairness was and that it was important, something to be valued. Fairness is for happy people, for people who have been lucky enough to have lived a life defined more by certainties than by ambiguities.

Right and wrong, however, are for-well, not unhappy people, maybe, but scarred people; scared people.

Or am I just thinking this now?

"So were the plaintiffs successful?" I asked. That year, his first year, I had in fact taught that case.

"Yes," he said, and he explained why: he knew instinctively why they would have been. And then, right on cue, I heard the tiny "But it's not fair!" from the back of the room, and before I could begin my first lecture of the season-"fair" is never an answer, etc., etc.-he said, quietly, "But it's right."

I was never able to ask him what he meant by that. Class ended, and everyone got up at once and almost ran for the door, as if the room was on fire. I remember telling myself to ask him about it in the next class, later that week, but I forgot. And then I forgot again, and again. Over the years, I would remember this conversation every now and again, and each time I would think: I must ask him what he meant by that. But then I never would. I don't know why.

And so this became his pattern: he knew the law. He had a feeling for it. But then, just when I wanted him to stop talking, he would introduce a moral argument, he would mention ethics. Please, I would think, please don't do this. The law is simple. It allows for less nuance than you'd imagine. Ethics and morals do, in reality, have a place in law-although not in jurisprudence. It is morals that help us make the laws, but morals do not help us apply them.

I was worried he'd make it harder for himself, that he'd complicate the real gift he had with-as much as I hate to have to say this about my profession-thinking. Stop! I wanted to tell him. But I never did, because eventually, I realized I enjoyed hearing him think.

In the end, of course, I needn't have worried; he learned how to control it, he learned to stop mentioning right and wrong. And as we know, this tendency of his didn't stop him from becoming a great lawyer. But later, often, I was sad for him, and for me. I wished I had urged him to leave law school, I wished I had told him to go to the equivalent of Drayman 241. The skills I gave him were not skills he needed after all. I wish I had nudged him in a direction where his mind could have been as supple as it was, where he wouldn't have had to harness himself to a dull way of thinking. I felt I had taken someone who once knew how to draw a dog and turned him into someone who instead knew only how to draw shapes.

I am guilty of many things when it comes to him. But sometimes, illogically, I feel guiltiest for this. I opened the van door, I invited him inside. And while I didn't drive off the road, I instead drove him somewhere bleak and cold and colorless, and left him standing there, where, back where I had collected him, the landscape shimmered with color, the sky fizzed with fireworks, and he stood openmouthed in wonder.

3.

THREE WEEKS BEFORE he left for Thanksgiving in Boston, a package-a large, flat, unwieldy wooden crate with his name and address written on every side in black marker-arrived for him at work, where it sat by his desk all day until he was able to open it late that night.

From the return address, he knew what it was, but he still felt that reflexive curiosity one does when unwrapping anything, even something unwanted. Inside the box were layers of brown paper, and then layers of bubble wrap, and then, wrapped in sheets of white paper, the painting itself.

He turned it over. "To Jude with love and apologies, JB," JB had scribbled on the canvas, directly above his signature: "Jean-Baptiste Marion." There was an envelope from JB's gallery taped to the back of the frame, inside of which was a letter certifying the painting's authenticity and date, addressed to him and signed by the gallery's registrar.

He called Willem, who he knew would have already left the theater and was probably on his way home. "Guess what I got today?"

There was only the slightest of pauses before Willem answered. "The painting."

"Right," he said, and sighed. "So I suppose you're behind this?"

Willem coughed. "I just told him he didn't have a choice in the matter any longer-not if he wanted you to talk to him again at some point." Willem paused, and he could hear the wind whooshing past him. "Do you need help getting it home?"

"Thanks," he said. "But I'm just going to leave it here for now and pick it up later." He re-clad the painting in its layers and replaced it in its box, which he shoved beneath his console. Before he shut off his computer, he began a note to JB, but then stopped, and deleted what he'd written, and instead left for the night.

He was both surprised and not that JB had sent him the painting after all (and not at all surprised to learn that it had been Willem who had convinced him to do so). Eighteen months ago, just as Willem was beginning his first performances in The Malamud Theorem, JB had been offered representation by a gallery on the Lower East Side, and the previous spring, he'd had his first solo show, "The Boys," a series of twenty-four paintings based on photographs he'd taken of the three of them. As he'd promised years ago, JB had let him see the pictures of him that he wanted to paint, and although he had approved many of them (reluctantly: he had felt queasy even as he did so, but he knew how important the series was to JB), JB had ultimately been less interested in the ones he'd approved than in the ones he wouldn't, a few of which-including an image in which he was curled into himself in bed, his eyes open but scarily unseeing, his left hand stretched open unnaturally wide, like a ghoul's claw-he alarmingly had no memory of JB even taking. That had been the first fight: JB wheedling, then sulking, then threatening, then shouting, and then, when he couldn't change his mind, trying to convince Willem to advocate for him.

"You realize I don't actually owe you anything," JB had told him once he realized his negotiations with Willem weren't progressing. "I mean, I don't technically have to ask your permission here. I could technically just paint whatever the fuck I want. This is a courtesy I'm extending you, you know."

He could've swamped JB with arguments, but he was too angry to do so. "You promised me, JB," he said. "That should be enough." He could have added, "And you owe me as my friend," but he had a few years ago come to realize that JB's definition of friendship and its responsibilities was different than his own, and there was no arguing with him about it: you either accepted it or you didn't, and he had decided to accept it, although recently, the work it took to accept JB and his limitations had begun to feel more enraging and wearisome and arduous than seemed necessary.

In the end, JB had had to admit defeat, although in the months before his show opened, he had made occasional allusions to what he called his "lost paintings," great works he could've made had he, Jude, been less rigid, less timid, less self-conscious, and (this was his favorite of JB's arguments) less of a philistine. Later, though, he would be embarrassed by his own gullibility, by how he had trusted that his wishes would be respected.

The opening had been on a Thursday in late April shortly after his thirtieth birthday, a night so unseasonably cold that the plane trees' first leaves had frozen and cracked, and rounding the corner onto Norfolk Street, he had stopped to admire the scene the gallery made, a bright golden box of light and shimmered warmth against the chilled flat black of the night. Inside, he immediately encountered Black Henry Young and a friend of theirs from law school, and then so many other people he knew-from college, and their various parties at Lispenard Street, and JB's aunts, and Malcolm's parents, and long-ago friends of JB's that he hadn't seen in years-that it had taken some time before he could push through the crowd to look at the paintings themselves.

He had always known that JB was talented. They all did, everyone did: no matter how ungenerously you might occasionally think of JB as a person, there was something about his work that could convince you that you were wrong, that whatever deficiencies of character you had ascribed to him were in reality evidence of your own pettiness and ill-temper, that hidden within JB was someone of huge sympathies and depth and understanding. And that night, he had no trouble at all recognizing the paintings' intensity and beauty, and had felt only an uncomplicated pride in and gratitude for JB: for the accomplishment of the work, of course, but also for his ability to produce colors and images that made all other colors and images seem wan and flaccid in comparison, for his ability to make you see the world anew. The paintings had been arranged in a single row that unspooled across the walls like a stave, and the tones JB had created-dense bruised blues and bourbonish yellows-were so distinctly their own, it was as if JB had invented a different language of color altogether.

He stopped to admire Willem and the Girl, one of the pictures he had already seen and had indeed already bought, in which JB had painted Willem turned away from the camera but for his eyes, which seemed to look directly back at the viewer, but were actually looking at, presumably, a girl who had been standing in Willem's exact sightline. He loved the expression on Willem's face, which was one he knew very well, when he was just about to smile and his mouth was still soft and undecided, somehow, but the muscles around his eyes were already pulling themselves upward. The paintings weren't arranged chronologically, and so after this was one of himself from just a few months ago (he hurried past the ones of himself), and following that an image of Malcolm and his sister, in what he recognized from the furniture was Flora's long-departed first West Village apartment (Malcolm and Flora, Bethune Street).

He looked around for JB and saw him talking to the gallery director, and at that moment, JB straightened his neck and caught his eye, and gave him a wave. "Genius," he mouthed to JB over people's heads, and JB grinned at him and mouthed back, "Thank you."

But then he had moved to the third and final wall and had seen them: two paintings, both of him, neither of which JB had ever shown him. In the first, he was very young and holding a cigarette, and in the second, which he thought was from around two years ago, he was sitting bent over on the edge of his bed, leaning his forehead against the wall, his legs and arms crossed and his eyes closed-it was the position he always assumed when he was coming out of an episode and was gathering his physical resources before attempting to stand up again. He hadn't remembered JB taking this picture, and indeed, given its perspective-the camera peeking around the edge of the doorframe-he knew that he wasn't meant to remember, because he wasn't meant to be aware of the picture's existence at all. For a moment, the noise of the space blotted out around him, and he could only look and look at the paintings: even in his distress, he had the presence of mind to understand that he was responding less to the images themselves than to the memories and sensations they provoked, and that his sense of violation that other people should be seeing these documentations of two miserable moments of his life was a personal reaction, specific only to himself. To anyone else, they would be two contextless paintings, meaningless unless he chose to announce their meaning. But oh, they were difficult for him to see, and he wished, suddenly and sharply, that he was alone.

He made it through the post-opening dinner, which was endless and at which he missed Willem intensely-but Willem had a show that night and hadn't been able to come. At least he hadn't had to speak to JB at all, who was busy holding court, and to the people who approached him-including JB's gallerist-to tell him that the final two pictures, the ones of him, were the best in the show (as if he were somehow responsible for this), he was able to smile and agree with them that JB was an extraordinary talent.

But later, at home, after regaining control of himself, he was at last free to articulate to Willem his sense of betrayal. And Willem had taken his side so unhesitatingly, had been so angry on his behalf, that he had been momentarily soothed-and had realized that JB's duplicity had come as a surprise to Willem as well.

This had begun the second fight, which had started with a confrontation with JB at a cafe near JB's apartment, during which JB had proven maddeningly incapable of apologizing: instead, he talked and talked, about how wonderful the pictures were, and how someday, once he had gotten over whatever issues he had with himself, he'd come to appreciate them, and how it wasn't even that big a deal, and how he really needed to confront his insecurities, which were groundless anyway, and maybe this would prove helpful in that process, and how everyone except him knew how incredibly great-looking he was, and so shouldn't that tell him something, that maybe-no, definitely-he was the one who was wrong about himself, and finally, how the pictures were already done, they were finished, and what did he expect should happen? Would he be happier if they were destroyed? Should he rip them off the wall and set them on fire? They had been seen and couldn't be un-seen, so why couldn't he just accept it and get over it?

"I'm not asking you to destroy them, JB," he'd said, so furious and dizzied by JB's bizarre logic and almost offensive intractability that he wanted to scream. "I'm asking you to apologize."

But JB couldn't, or wouldn't, and finally he had gotten up and left, and JB hadn't tried to stop him.

After that, he simply stopped speaking to JB. Willem had made his own approach, and the two of them (as Willem told him) had actually begun shouting at each other in the street, and then Willem, too, had stopped speaking to JB, and so from then on, they had to rely primarily on Malcolm for news of JB. Malcolm, typically noncommittal, had admitted to them that he thought JB was totally in the wrong, while at the same time suggesting that they were both being unrealistic: "You know he's not going to apologize, Judy," he said. "This is JB we're talking about. You're wasting your time."

"Am I being unreasonable?" he asked Willem after this conversation.

"No," Willem said, immediately. "It's fucked up, Jude. He fucked up, and he needs to apologize."

The show sold out. Willem and the Girl was delivered to him at work, as was Willem and Jude, Lispenard Street, II, which Willem had bought. Jude, After Sickness (the title, when he learned it, had made him so newly angry and humiliated that for a moment he experienced what the saying "blind with rage" meant) was sold to a collector whose purchases were considered benedictions and predictive of future success: he only bought from artists' debut shows, and almost every artist whose work he had bought had gone on to have a major career. Only the show's centerpiece, Jude with Cigarette, remained unplaced, and this was due to a shockingly amateurish error, in which the director of the gallery had sold it to an important British collector and the owner of the gallery had sold it to the Museum of Modern Art.

"So, perfect," Willem said to Malcolm, knowing Malcolm would ferry his words back to JB. "JB should tell the gallery that he's keeping the painting, and he should just give it to Jude."

"He can't do that," Malcolm said, as appalled as if Willem had suggested simply tossing the canvas into a trash can. "It's MoMA."

"Who cares?" Willem asked. "If he's that fucking good, he'll have another shot at MoMA. But I'm telling you, Malcolm, this is really the only solution he has left if he wants to keep Jude as a friend." He paused. "And me, too."

So Malcolm conveyed that message, and the prospect of losing Willem as a friend had been enough to make JB call Willem and demand a meeting, at which JB had cried and accused Willem of betraying him, and always taking Jude's side, and obviously not giving a shit about his, JB's, career, when he, JB, had always supported Willem's.

All of this had taken place over months, as spring turned into summer, and he and Willem had gone to Truro without JB (and without Malcolm, who told them he was afraid of leaving JB on his own), and JB had gone to the Irvines' in Aquinnah over Memorial Day and they had gone over the Fourth of July, and he and Willem had taken the long-planned trip to Croatia and Turkey by themselves.

And then it was fall, and by the time Willem and JB had their second meeting, Willem had suddenly and unexpectedly booked his first film role, playing the king in an adaptation of The Girl with the Silver Hands and was leaving to shoot in Sofia in January, and he had gotten a promotion at work and had been approached by a partner at Cromwell Thurman Grayson and Ross, one of the best corporate firms in the city, and was having to use the wheelchair Andy had gotten him that May more often than not, and Willem had broken up with his girlfriend of a year and was dating a costume designer named Philippa, and his former fellow law clerk, Kerrigan, had written a mass e-mail to everyone he had ever worked with in which he simultaneously came out and denounced conservatism, and Harold had been asking him who was coming over for Thanksgiving this year, and if he could stay a night after whoever he invited had left, because he and Julia needed to talk about something with him, and he had seen plays with Malcolm and gallery shows with Willem and had read novels that he would have argued about with JB, as the two of them were the novel-readers of the group: a whole list of things the four of them would have once picked over together that they now instead discussed in twos or threes. At first, it had been disorienting, after so many years of operating as a foursome, but he had gotten used to it, and although he missed JB-his witty self-involvement, the way he could see everything the world had to offer only as it might affect him-he also found himself unable to forgive him and, simultaneously, able to see his life without him.

And now, he supposed, their fight was over, and the painting was his. Willem came down with him to the office that Saturday and he unwrapped it and leaned it against the wall and the two of them regarded it in silence, as if it were a rare and inert zoo animal. This was the painting that had been reproduced in the Times review and, later, the Artforum story, but it wasn't until now, in the safety of his office, that he was able to truly appreciate it-if he could forget it was him, he could almost see how lovely an image it was, and why JB would have been attracted to it: for the strange person in it who looked so frightened and watchful, who was discernibly neither female nor male, whose clothes looked borrowed, who was mimicking the gestures and postures of adulthood while clearly understanding nothing of them. He no longer felt anything for that person, but not feeling anything for that person had been a conscious act of will, like turning away from someone in the street even though you saw them constantly, and pretending you couldn't see them day after day until one day, you actually couldn't-or so you could make yourself believe.

"I don't know what I'm going to do with it," he admitted to Willem, regretfully, because he didn't want the painting, and yet felt guilty that Willem had axed JB out of his life on his behalf, and for something he knew he would never look at again.

"Well," said Willem, and there was a silence. "You could always give it to Harold; I'm sure he'd love it." And he knew then that Willem had perhaps always known that he didn't want the painting, and that it hadn't mattered to him, that he hadn't regretted choosing him over JB, that he didn't blame him for having to make that decision.

"I could," he said slowly, although he knew he wouldn't: Harold would indeed love it (he had when he had seen the show) and would hang it somewhere prominent, and whenever he went to visit him, he would have to look at it. "I'm sorry, Willem," he said at last, "I'm sorry to drag you down here. I think I'll leave it here until I figure out what to do."

"It's okay," Willem said, and the two of them wrapped it up again and replaced it under his desk.

After Willem left, he turned on his phone and this time, he did write JB a message. "JB," he began, "Thanks very much for the painting, and for your apology, both of which mean a lot." He paused, thinking about what to say next. "I've missed you, and want to hear what's been going on in your life," he continued. "Call me when you have some time to hang out." It was all true.

And suddenly, he knew what he should do with the painting. He looked up the address for JB's registrar and wrote her a note, thanking her for sending him Jude with Cigarette and telling her that he wanted to donate it to MoMA, and could she help facilitate the transaction?

Later, he would look back on this episode as a sort of fulcrum, the hinge between a relationship that was one thing and then became something else: his friendship with JB, of course, but also his friendship with Willem. There had been periods in his twenties when he would look at his friends and feel such a pure, deep contentment that he would wish the world around them would simply cease, that none of them would have to move from that moment, when everything was in equilibrium and his affection for them was perfect. But, of course, that was never to be: a beat later, and everything shifted, and the moment quietly vanished.

It would have been too melodramatic, too final, to say that after this JB was forever diminished for him. But it was true that for the first time, he was able to comprehend that the people he had grown to trust might someday betray him anyway, and that as disappointing as it might be, it was inevitable as well, and that life would keep propelling him steadily forward, because for everyone who might fail him in some way, there was at least one person who never would.

It was his opinion (shared by Julia) that Harold had a tendency to make Thanksgiving more complicated than it needed to be. Every year since he'd first been invited to Harold and Julia's for the holiday, Harold promised him-usually in early November, when he was still full of enthusiasm for the project-that this year he was going to blow his mind by upending the lamest of American culinary traditions. Harold always began with big ambitions: their first Thanksgiving together, nine years ago, when he was in his second year of law school, Harold had announced he was going to make duck a l'orange, with kumquats standing in for the oranges.

But when he arrived at Harold's house with the walnut cake he'd baked the night before, Julia was standing alone in the doorway to greet him. "Don't mention the duck," she whispered as she kissed him hello. In the kitchen, a harassed-looking Harold was lifting a large turkey out of the oven.

"Don't say a word," Harold warned him.

"What would I say?" he asked.

This year, Harold asked how he felt about trout. "Trout stuffed with other stuff," he added.

"I like trout," he'd answered, cautiously. "But you know, Harold, I actually like turkey." They had a variation on this conversation every year, with Harold proposing various animals and proteins-steamed black-footed Chinese chicken, filet mignon, tofu with wood ear fungus, smoked whitefish salad on homemade rye-as turkey improvements.

"No one likes turkey, Jude," Harold said, impatiently. "I know what you're doing. Don't insult me by pretending you do because you don't think I'm actually capable of making anything else. We're having trout, and that's it. Also, can you make that cake you made last year? I think it'd go well with this wine I got. Just send me a list of what you need me to get."

The perplexing thing, he always thought, was that in general, Harold wasn't that interested in food (or wine). In fact, he had terrible taste, and was often taking him to restaurants that were overpriced yet mediocre, where Harold would happily devour dull plates of blackened meat and unimaginative sides of gloppy pasta. He and Julia (who also had little interest in food) discussed Harold's strange fixation every year: Harold had numerous obsessions, some of them inexplicable, but this one seemed particularly so, and more so for its endurance.

Willem thought that Harold's Thanksgiving quest had begun partly as shtick, but over the years, it had morphed into something more serious, and now he was truly unable to stop himself, even as he knew he'd never succeed.

"But you know," Willem said, "it's really all about you."

"What do you mean?" he'd asked.

"It's a performance for you," Willem had said. "It's his way of telling you he cares about you enough to try to impress you, without actually saying he cares about you."

He'd dismissed this right away: "I don't think so, Willem." But sometimes, he pretended to himself that Willem might be right, feeling silly and a little pathetic because of how happy the thought made him.

Willem was the only one coming to Thanksgiving this year: by the time he and JB had reconciled, JB had already made plans to go to his aunts' with Malcolm; when he'd tried to cancel, they had apparently been so irked that he'd decided not to antagonize them further.

"What's it going to be this year?" asked Willem. They were taking the train up on Wednesday, the night before Thanksgiving. "Elk? Venison? Turtle?"

"Trout," he said.

"Trout!" Willem replied. "Well, trout's easy. We may actually end up with trout this year."

"He said he was going to stuff it with something, though."

"Oh. I take it back."

There were eight of them at dinner: Harold and Julia, Laurence and Gillian, Julia's friend James and his boyfriend Carey, and he and Willem.

"This is dynamite trout, Harold," Willem said, cutting into his second piece of turkey, and everyone laughed.

What was the point, he wondered, at which he had stopped feeling so nervous and out of place at Harold's dinners? Certainly, his friends had helped. Harold liked sparring with them, liked trying to provoke JB into making outrageous and borderline racist statements, liked teasing Willem about when he was going to settle down, liked debating structural and aesthetic trends with Malcolm. He knew Harold enjoyed engaging with them, and that they enjoyed it too, and it gave him the chance to simply listen to them being who they were without feeling the need to participate; they were a fleet of parrots shaking their bright-colored feathers at one another, presenting themselves to their peers without fear or guile.

The dinner was dominated by talk of James's daughter, who was getting married in the summer. "I'm an old man," James moaned, and Laurence and Gillian, whose daughters were still in college and spending the holiday at their friend's house in Carmel, made sympathetic noises.

"This reminds me," said Harold, looking at him and Willem, "when are you two ever going to settle down?"

"I think he means you," he smiled at Willem.

"Harold, I'm thirty-two!" Willem protested, and everyone laughed again as Harold spluttered: "What is that, Willem? Is that an explanation? Is that a defense? It's not like you're sixteen!"

But as much as he enjoyed the evening, a part of his mind remained abuzz and anxious, worrying about the conversation Harold and Julia wanted to have with him the next day. He had finally mentioned it to Willem on the ride up, and in moments, when the two of them were working together (stuffing the turkey, blanching the potatoes, setting the table), they would try to figure out what Harold might have to say to him. After dinner, they put on their coats and sat in the back garden, puzzling over it again.

At least he knew that nothing was wrong with them-it was the first thing he had asked, and Harold had assured him that he and Julia were both fine. But what, then, could it be?

"Maybe he thinks I'm hanging around them too much," he suggested to Willem. Maybe Harold was, simply, sick of him.

"Not possible," Willem said, so quickly and declaratively that he was relieved. They were quiet. "Maybe one of them got a job offer somewhere and they're moving?"

"I thought of that, too. But I don't think Harold would ever leave Boston. Julia, either."

There weren't, in the end, many options, at least many that would make a conversation with him necessary: maybe they were selling the house in Truro (but why would they need to talk to him about that, as much as he loved the house). Maybe Harold and Julia were splitting up (but they seemed the same as they always did around each other). Maybe they were selling the New York apartment and wanted to know if he wanted to buy it from them (unlikely: he was certain they would never sell the apartment). Maybe they were renovating the apartment and needed him to oversee the renovation.

And then their speculations grew more specific and improbable: maybe Julia was coming out (maybe Harold was). Maybe Harold was being born again (maybe Julia was). Maybe they were quitting their jobs, moving to an ashram in upstate New York. Maybe they were becoming ascetics who would live in a remote Kashmiri valley. Maybe they were having his-and-hers plastic surgery. Maybe Harold was becoming a Republican. Maybe Julia had found God. Maybe Harold had been nominated to be the attorney general. Maybe Julia had been identified by the Tibetan government in exile as the next reincarnation of the Panchen Lama and was moving to Dharamsala. Maybe Harold was running for president as a Socialist candidate. Maybe they were opening a restaurant on the square that served only turkey stuffed with other kinds of meat. By this time they were both laughing so hard, as much from the nervous, self-soothing helplessness of not knowing as from the absurdity of their guesses, that they were bent over in their chairs, pressing their coat collars to their mouths to muffle the noise, their tears freezing pinchingly on their cheeks.

In bed, though, he returned to the thought that had crept, tendril-like, from some dark space of his mind and had insinuated itself into his consciousness like a thin green vine: maybe one of them had discovered something about the person he once was. Maybe he would be presented with evidence-a doctor's report, a photograph, a (this was the nightmare scenario) film still. He had already decided he wouldn't deny it, he wouldn't argue against it, he wouldn't defend himself. He would acknowledge its veracity, he would apologize, he would explain that he never meant to deceive them, he would offer not to contact them again, and then he would leave. He would ask them only to keep his secret, to not tell anyone else. He practiced saying the words: I'm so sorry, Harold. I'm so sorry, Julia. I never meant to embarrass you. But of course it was such a useless apology. He might not have meant to, but it wouldn't make a difference: he would have; he had.

Willem left the next morning; he had a show that night. "Call me as soon as you know, okay?" he asked, and he nodded. "It's going to be fine, Jude," he promised. "Whatever it is, we'll figure it out. Don't worry, all right?"

"You know I will anyway," he said, and tried to smile back at Willem.

"Yeah, I know," said Willem. "But try. And call me."

The rest of the day he kept himself busy cleaning-there was always plenty to clean at the house, as both Harold and Julia were unenthusiastic tidiers-and by the time they sat down to an early dinner he'd made of turkey stew and a beet salad, he felt almost aloft from nervousness and could only pretend to eat, moving the food around his plate like a compass point, hoping Harold and Julia wouldn't notice. After, he began stacking the plates to take them to the kitchen, but Harold stopped him. "Leave them, Jude," he said. "Maybe we should have our talk now?"

He felt himself go fluttery with panic. "I should really rinse them off, or everything's going to congeal," he protested, lamely, hearing how stupid he sounded.