Dan wasn't there. The House of Socrates was dark. The sign had been turned to CLOSED. PLEASE COME AGAIN. He peered into the reflective window, knowing Dan was in there somewhere, but he saw no movement. Chuckling, suspecting a practical joke, he jangled his keys and head for his car, only stopping when he saw that Dan's Chevy wasn't there either. He checked his watch. And seized up. Stopped breathing.

It was four in the morning.

2.

Early Tuesday morning Veronica Lieber was sitting in her car outside a Motel 6, reading a letter headed by the worst F-word in American society. It wasn't the word most middle schoolers think of in a.s.sociation with the letter; it was the worst word she could imagine, a forbidden word to those ensconced in the type of society she could only dream of: FORECLOSURE. In shock, all she could force from her mind was I'm in trouble this time, which was the sort of grand understatement she specialized in.

She closed her eyes. How had it come to this, to these letters devoid of even the semblance of customer service? Consumers shouldn't be treated like this, she thought, reminding herself of the hefty interest she paid to You're Home, Inc.-and they had the right to go bats.h.i.t when she was thirty-five days late? She sat up, breathing deeply. In the enclosed cabin her breath was a mix of stale meat and mouthwash. "It'll be fine," she a.s.sured herself.

But the mortgage wasn't her only problem.

The Motel 6 represented a conundrum that had been a blessing in the beginning, a welcome time-out from life. It had started like an afternoon soap-they met at the gym, Christ recognizing her from the portrait on her husband's desk. At first, her giddiness around him was tres middle school, but that didn't change the natural course of things from l.u.s.t to adultery. Within a week, they began their long-standing routine of Motel 6 excursions whenever their schedules permitted, and often when they didn't. Not only did Chris Flagert have an Adonis-like body, he had the job Robert didn't have the guts to go after. This made him perfect. Strangely, Veronica felt no happier with him than her husband.

Knuckles rapped on her windshield. She gasped, jumped, crumpled the paper, hoping he hadn't seen it. Chris stepped back, and she opened the door. His features scrunched up in what she supposed was concern.

The morning air was uncharacteristically chilly. A cold front was making its way down from North Carolina and she shivered as Chris Flagert led her to their room.

The fan was running in the bathroom. Veronica kept looking over at the closed door. Chris was behind it, grunting quietly. There was something so childish about an affair. Marriage was uncomfortably naked, so she'd plunged into a relationship that, by its nature, left the souls of both undisclosed.

Chris flushed the toilet and opened the door, standing in the doorway before coming closer. The muscles in his stomach rippled, his chest flashed. She stretched out on the bed, arching her back like a feline, curling her legs until her muscles flexed. She smiled up at him dreamily.

Chris's p.e.n.i.s hung thick and bald. He dragged a finger along the thick vein on his c.o.c.k, then curled his fingers around it, lifting it up. She took it, moaned deeply and worked hard until it was over. Afterward, she slumped back, her legs parted, her back flat. Drops of sweat dotted her forehead and upper lip.

Chris stood at the cheap vanity, clasping his belt. He studied his face, fixed his hair, tucked in his shirt, then turned to face her. He frowned. "You're not ready."

"No," she said, reaching for the sheet.

"How come?"

She wrapped the sheet around her, rose to her knees, creeping forward. He sat on the edge of the vanity. "Why didn't I come?"

He wiped his hands all over his face, then said, "Tense? I don't know, you never come."

She slumped back. She had never come. Although she'd occasionally neared o.r.g.a.s.m, something had always kept her away from it. She stared off, thought of the letter, of the life that existed outside these walls. "I think I'm in love with you," she told Chris.

"No, you don't."

She looked up and a soft, uncertain smile came over her. "No, I don't," she said, staring at her lover in his white shirt and precise tie, his khakis and loafers. A university boy from the word go. She stretched and the sheet slipped off to reveal the corner of her left nipple. "I wish I did, though. I wish I did," she said. "What do I love?"

Gathering up his coat, Chris didn't answer. He strolled out and shut the door behind him.

3.

Robert awoke at five-thirty on Wednesday morning. He'd been dreaming; again: the beach and the prehistoric sky. He was slicked in sweat. The sheets were soaked. Raising his head, he saw Veronica on her side. Her blankets rose and fell. They hadn't said much after their screamer on Monday, and last night he'd taken one look at her and decided that making up could wait. He slumped back and his mind wandered. He thought of the first time he'd seen Veronica, how her curly brunette hair spiraled to her shoulders and rested there; and her eyes, round and aware. He approached her that night in the bar, somehow confident of a connection, of smart remarks pa.s.sing between two world-takers. She'd turned when he tapped her shoulder, seeming so alive, so filled with humor and crazy intelligence. The rest was a blur: two years of dating and bad s.e.x; a proposal around Christmas; a spring wedding.

He tossed his feet over the bed. Downstairs, he entered his office, flicked on the lamp, rolled his thumb over his mother's diaries. Inside the fourth volume was a photo of his mother his father had taken during a birthday party. She was surrounded by friends, who were all laughing as if at a punch line. She seemed oblivious of the camera. It was his favorite picture of her for that and one other reason: his father had obviously been watching her work the crowd and had lifted his camera, so in love, so proud of his wife that he had to have a keepsake. Then it hit him: Veronica looked like her. The same curly locks, the same vivacious face, the same awareness of the world.

He snapped the diary shut, slid it back in its place.

After breakfast, he dressed and left for the first day of fall semester. He thought it odd Veronica hadn't gotten up yet, but he was glad. Tonight they could talk. Tonight they could fix things.

Feeling weak, he was curt and irritable during his morning cla.s.ses. And was it his imagination, or were the students staring at him? Their gawking unnerved him, so he released his second cla.s.s ten minutes early and retired to his office. He shut the door behind him and sighed, collapsing in his chair.

His office was small. Particle board bookshelves lined the wall opposite his desk, and two others bordered it. The smell of mildew was powerful. Hunching over his barely finalized syllabus, he crossed out lines, added others. He'd only been alone five minutes when someone knocked.

"Robert?" called Chris Flagert, the department chair.

"Yes?" he answered, and Chris entered with a changed body.

Flagert glanced down as if he had no clue. "Oh, the weight," he said. "I thought Veronica might have told you."

"Told me what?"

"Our schedules often coincide at the gym," said Chris, straightening his tie.

"Ah," said Robert. "What can I do for you?"

"Not that you were required to be there, but I didn't see you at the department's orientation. I wanted to touch base with you about your submissions to the journal."

Robert frowned. Oh, you mean the tight-a.s.sed literary journal you're hoping will cement your rep and land you a spot on a campus more deserving of your erudition? Instead, he said, "I've been working on three, Chris. All summer long."

Then, for the first time since he'd entered, Chris's eyes met his. His eyes went blank. "What are they about?"

"The h.o.m.oeroticism in Cheever. Updike and G.o.d. Chabon and comics."

"Oh," said Chris, absently raising a finger until it was leveled at Robert. "What's wrong with your neck?"

"What?" asked Robert, feeling around.

"No, other side."

He reared back. And felt it. "What the-" As he had when he'd seen the toilet full of blood, he broke into a cold sweat.

"Seen a doctor about that?"

Sitting up, he folded his hand in his lap. "How could I? You just told me."

"Oh," Chris said, sidestepping to the door. "You can leave early if you want. Better get that checked out." On that note, Chris fled.

The knot was under his jaw. The left side of his neck was swollen around the palpable lymph node. He pressed on the skin but it told him nothing. It didn't hurt, but it was rock-hard. It was the size, shape and feel of a bullet casing. "Christ," he said, finally grabbing hold of the node between his index and middle finger. It was fixed. His we search had warned of that.

Uncradling the phone, he dialed. His beloved Spanish receptionist answered. "Jes?"

"Hi, this is Robert Lieber."

"Oh, jes, Meester Leeber. How ees jore een-grown nail?"

"Healed wonderfully, thank you. Matt doesn't have a spot this afternoon, does he?" She covered the receiver and conferred. His heart hammered away. She's probably confirming his f.u.c.king tee-time.

"Wut tine?"

He scrolled through his own itinerary. "Four thirty?"

"Ah, jes. For dirty."

4.

Seven minutes late, Veronica strolled into Trust National Bank. Her subordinate, Babs Tanner, met her in the lobby, a grin plastered on her face. "Sorry, Veronica, but Mister McDylan would like to see you."

"G.o.d knows he wouldn't like to see you," said Veronica, tramping to McDylan's office. But the second her newest stiletto clicked over the threshold her ebullience faded.

"Sit down," George McDylan told her.

Veronica had worked over a decade for him and he'd never been stern with her. Over the ten years of her employment here, he'd b.u.mped her from the teller line to credit card sales, from sales to mortgages. George had been front-row-center at her wedding.

McDylan adjusted his spectacles, picked up a manila folder and reached over his desk. She took the folder, laid it in her lap. The cover fell back. She gasped, and her internal temperature dropped ten degrees.

"Did you think I wouldn't find out?" he asked, red-faced, a vein pulsing at his hairline.

Veronica lurched forward. "George, I can-"

He lifted a finger. "Don't tell me you can explain. You can't."

"I'm sorry."

"That's better."

"What should I do?"

"Are things alright at home?"

"They're . . . okay."

"Then why are you ruining your life?"

Veronica shrugged.

"You realize I helped push your mortgage through? Did you think Pete wouldn't call if you were defaulting on the loan I helped you get?"

"I didn't . . .," she began, then burst into tears, burying her face in her hands.

He scanned a paper while Veronica continued to sob. "Do you have a plan to get these accounts up to date? Have you spoken with the lien holders? Or did you ignore them, thinking they wouldn't repossess your cars and foreclose on your house?"

"I don't-"

"Does your husband know about any of this?" Then George held his palm up. "Never mind." He opened a drawer, tossed a checkbook on his desk, slipped a pen from his shirt's pocket protector and clicked the top. "How much?"

Her mouth dropped open. The tears began to dry.

"How much?"

"About . . . four thousand."

George's eyebrows rose over his spectacles. But he wrote the check, tore it off, and handed it over the desk.

She hesitated.

"This is a one time offer."

She took it.

He raised the pen. "Ten percent interest, and I'm taking money out every pay period."

Standing, she clamped the check over her heart. "Thank you, thank you so much."

"Shut up, Veronica," he said, pointed at the door. "Get out."

5.

So close to Doctor Rectal Peeper's tee time, Robert Lieber was immediately ushered to a room. He smiled at Marie as she closed the door on him, then climbed up on the vinyl bench. Sliding around, he ripped the tissue paper that lay along it. To his right was a porcelain sink. A book ent.i.tled 101 Doctor Jokes was propped atop it. He didn't think he could find humor while surrounded by such sterility.