Louise did enjoy Messenger's visits. The man was a crybaby and blabbermouth, and Mills saw that Louise took the same comfort from him that Mrs. Glazer had taken from Maria's sad adventures on Mexican television. Because she knew most of the people involved-the Claunches had invited her to return to the estate and bring some of the Meals-on-Wheels people with her; Sam Glazer had called and asked them to dinner; she'd met his girls; she'd met Messenger's dyslexic son when Cornell brought Harve to the house one day; she had even spoken to Losey, Messenger's surgeon friend, about George's bad back, had met Nora, his wife, when the failing student of architecture had come to South St. Louis with a cla.s.smate on an a.s.signment to study the city's "vernacular architecture" (Cornell had given Nora Losey Mills's name; neither Louise nor Nora knew at the time that the cla.s.smate was the girl with whom the surgeon was having an affair, George didn't)-they'd taken on an immediacy and importance in her life which George Mills resisted but could do little to discourage.

Meanwhile Louise was thrilled with other people's bad news, tried to catch Mills's eye and nod at him knowingly each time Cornell delivered himself of some new heartache in the portfolio.

"We don't have it so bad," Louise told her husband one night.

"No sir," George said. "We've got it made."

"When are you going to play your China card, George?"

This was Messenger's phrase. George had told him about the calls--the dean's job offer, Claunch's lawyer's bid on the Buick Special. He thought Mills beyond bribery and did not know that the only reason George had mentioned the calls was to get some idea of what his affidavit was actually worth to them. Either side could have it for top dollar. He had liked Judith but Judith had died, convinced of her salvation as he was of his. Nothing he said about her now could alter either of their conditions.

She was absolutely sane, solid as a rock. I swear it by all that's holy!

I was with her day and night for more than a month and had plenty of opportunity to observe her. She tried to get us killed. She was bats, nutty as a fruitcake. So help me G.o.d. Amen.

But he was no good as an examiner, was without subtlety, could not lead his witness, could not trap him-it's the blood, Mills thought, it's my thousand-year-old blue collar blood-could, in the end, only ask outright his cruel, crucial question.

Messenger, surprised, looked at him.

"These are my friends," Messenger said. "You understand that, don't you?"

"Sure," Mills said.

"I mean both sides."

"Sure."

"Sam's a colleague."

"Yes."

"However difficult Judith may have been, I always respected her."

"Yes."

"She was n.o.body's fool."

"No."

"Why are you doing this?"

"There's a buck to be made."

"Come on."

"Operation Bootstrap."

"You're too late, George," Messenger said sympathetically.

"Maybe not."

To stall him he told him something else.

"Victor couldn't take it anymore," Messenger said softly. "He had Audrey committed. They took her belts away. He had to sign for her shoestrings. Restraints, the whole shtick. shtick. She won't swallow pills, so they have to force-feed her. When they put her on an IV she tried to chew through the tube and jimmy an air bubble into her vein. They can't use an IV. They're afraid she'll try to turn on it and impale herself. A male nurse who used to be her student gives her shots in her arms, in her a.s.s. Two men hold her down. She's black-and-blue from these euphorics, so dry from drugs her tongue is chafed, the roof of her mouth. She can't close her mouth for the pain. She cries even when she's sleeping and the salt tears run into her mouth. There are lesions inside her cheeks, all the soft tissue. They slake her from eyedroppers like you'd feed a sick bird. When he visited her last time she signaled him over to the side of the bed. She could barely talk. He had to lean down. Even then he could hardly understand her. She was smiling. The first time he'd seen her smile in almost a year. She won't swallow pills, so they have to force-feed her. When they put her on an IV she tried to chew through the tube and jimmy an air bubble into her vein. They can't use an IV. They're afraid she'll try to turn on it and impale herself. A male nurse who used to be her student gives her shots in her arms, in her a.s.s. Two men hold her down. She's black-and-blue from these euphorics, so dry from drugs her tongue is chafed, the roof of her mouth. She can't close her mouth for the pain. She cries even when she's sleeping and the salt tears run into her mouth. There are lesions inside her cheeks, all the soft tissue. They slake her from eyedroppers like you'd feed a sick bird. When he visited her last time she signaled him over to the side of the bed. She could barely talk. He had to lean down. Even then he could hardly understand her. She was smiling. The first time he'd seen her smile in almost a year.

" 'Yes?' he said. 'The sh.o.r.e? What about the sh.o.r.e? You want to go to the sh.o.r.e? Get better, sweetheart. When you get well. I promise. When you get well we'll go to the sh.o.r.e.' They have this place on Cape May. He patted her forehead and promised to take her.

"He says you'd have thought he'd given her a jolt of--"

"This is--" Mills said.

"--electricity," Messenger said. "That's how fast she jumped away from his touch. Her loathing was that clear. 'Well, what about about the sh.o.r.e?' he said he said angrily. 'You don't want me to come? Swell,' he said he said hurt, 'get well. Go by yourself. I won't stop you.' the sh.o.r.e?' he said he said angrily. 'You don't want me to come? Swell,' he said he said hurt, 'get well. Go by yourself. I won't stop you.'

"She shook her head and now he said he could see that it wasn't loathing at all. He said it was a different thing entirely, and while she wasn't smiling the expression on her face was almost a sane one and some--"

"This is all--" Mills said.

"--thing else he hadn't seen in almost a year. It was just sane, ordinary, angry, outraged human frustration, and he realized he'd misunderstood her. He apologized and leaned down again over her pillows. 'What?' he asked. 'What?'

" 'Not sh.o.r.e,' she said. 'Bedsh.o.r.e. Bed Bedsh.o.r.e.'

" 'What?'

" 'Bedsh.o.r.e!'

"She was telling him about her bedsores, that she meant to kill herself by poisoning her bedsores, by peeing on her bedsores and infecting them, by rolling her sores in s.h.i.t. He told her doctor he wanted her catheterized. He demanded she be rigged to her bedpan.

"All right," Messenger said, "what is it?"

"The public record, the sunshine laws. They write this stuff down on her chart," Mills said coolly. "They say things like this at the nurses' station. They'd tell me this c.r.a.p if I called the front desk."

He thought Messenger was going to hit him.

"It's gossip, Cornell. A king told my ancestor that gossip's horizontal, that nasty stories neither ascend nor descend but stay within their cla.s.s of origin."

"What am I, a traitor to my cla.s.s? I ain't even high. This is my best stuff."

"I don't want gossip," Mills said.

"What, what do you want?"

"The goods. I want the G.o.dd.a.m.n goods on them! I want the G.o.dd.a.m.n goods on them!" George Mills exploded.

Which he was not to have for a while, Messenger feeding him as he might have fed the Meals-on-Wheelers, in installment, moiety, some awful, teasing incrementality, telling him what Mills did not care to hear not because he enjoyed, as Judith Glazer might, the damage of the thing, the tightening, dangerous coil of consequence he could not keep his hands off and wound and wound like the stem of a watch, but because of the flashy, reflexive, ricochet'd attention and glory, perhaps his melodramatist's or bad gambler's hole-card hope--the same thing that kept him glued to the telethon, that drew him to "20/20," "Sixty Minutes," the news, that made the Watergate years-how he envied Deep Throat!-the best of his life.

"He can't stand what he's done. I think Victor's gone nuts. Losey says so too. The man's a surgeon but he sees plenty of this emergency room guilt. Sure. When they sign the papers. To lop off a leg, to hacksaw crushed fingers or take away t.i.ts.

"He thinks he should have sent the kid off instead. He could have sent his son to aunts in Pittsburgh, to a brother-in-law in Maine."

"What happened?" Mills asked. (Because he was asking questions now. Because he knew that Messenger would tell him what he needed to know but that first he would have to hear all of it, Messenger's scandals like the devised sequences and routines of the Ca.s.sadagans. Because he was something of the straight man now too, the old Florida Follies Kid. Thinking: You don't ever grow up. Nothing changes, nothing. Certainly not your character.) "What happened?"

"She wasn't suicidal. Even the psychiatrist said so. She wasn't suicidal. She just wanted to die.

"That's what she kept telling the boy. That she wanted to die. Can you imagine? How old can he be? Eleven? Twelve? The kid home from school and making chocolate milk, Horlick's, his Ovaltine. Slopping sardine sandwiches together and nibbling Fritos off some cleared portion of the dining room table. (Because the kitchen table's overflowing. Not from breakfast, understand. Or anyway not from that morning's breakfast, or even yesterday's, but the c.u.mulate dishes, spoons, knives and egg-tined forks of maybe three days' meals. And more in the sink. Sure. There's three in the family. Say they've got two sets of dishes, for dinner parties, for everyday. Service for twelve, say. The cleaning lady comes once a week. That's four days of meals on the everyday. Another two or three on what they'd serve to their guests. But be fair. Audrey's not eating. But be be fair. They fill up her plate. Even she fair. They fill up her plate. Even she don't don't eat they got to dirty a dish. And suppose the girl calls in sick? I mean she's eat they got to dirty a dish. And suppose the girl calls in sick? I mean she's seen seen that mess. She hired on as a cleaning lady, not a pearl diver. Suppose she calls in sick. In eight days they have to take their meals on the coffee table in the living room. In two more they're taking them separately. On the back porch, the stairs. The kid's fixing his snack on the ironing board in the bas.e.m.e.nt.) that mess. She hired on as a cleaning lady, not a pearl diver. Suppose she calls in sick. In eight days they have to take their meals on the coffee table in the living room. In two more they're taking them separately. On the back porch, the stairs. The kid's fixing his snack on the ironing board in the bas.e.m.e.nt.) "So there's, what'shisname, Danny, trying to make a simple sardine or peanut-b.u.t.ter-and-jelly sandwich and drinking now out of the jelly and yahrtzeit yahrtzeit gla.s.ses and actual Corky the Clown mugs from the old highchair days, wolfing it down because though he's not athletic and is normally a housebound child content to stay home and read, do homework, it breaks his heart to hear his mom cry and he can't stand absolutely to hear her complain how if there was a G.o.d she'd be a goner by now, and he's got to get out of there, back to the playground to get in a game which he knows he's not only bad at but hasn't even learned the rules of yet, even the G.o.dd.a.m.n object. Not go for a walk, kick leaves, ride bikes with a pal, read books on a bench, but back to the playground where he doesn't like to be even at recess, back to the actual G.o.dd.a.m.n playground where he knows d.a.m.n well they'll choose him, even choose him early, before the better players, the ones who've got it together, whose reflexes hum like gears in fine machinery, whose timing and power and speed and concentration make them good up at bat, who wear their fielders' mitts as naturally and comfortably as Dan wears scarves, coats; who'll choose him early for the simple good fun of just making them laugh, giving them by simple dint of picking him for their side the right-the gla.s.ses and actual Corky the Clown mugs from the old highchair days, wolfing it down because though he's not athletic and is normally a housebound child content to stay home and read, do homework, it breaks his heart to hear his mom cry and he can't stand absolutely to hear her complain how if there was a G.o.d she'd be a goner by now, and he's got to get out of there, back to the playground to get in a game which he knows he's not only bad at but hasn't even learned the rules of yet, even the G.o.dd.a.m.n object. Not go for a walk, kick leaves, ride bikes with a pal, read books on a bench, but back to the playground where he doesn't like to be even at recess, back to the actual G.o.dd.a.m.n playground where he knows d.a.m.n well they'll choose him, even choose him early, before the better players, the ones who've got it together, whose reflexes hum like gears in fine machinery, whose timing and power and speed and concentration make them good up at bat, who wear their fielders' mitts as naturally and comfortably as Dan wears scarves, coats; who'll choose him early for the simple good fun of just making them laugh, giving them by simple dint of picking him for their side the right-the right right-to denounce his errors, mock his play, him. To call him bad names and nudge him with elbows and push him around.

"Not, Victor says, as you'd suspect, to take his mind off things but to get it back on them. To see just what his mother meant when she told him each morning when he went to school that she hoped noon would find her stricken and when school let out dead.

" 'I'm destroying it, Danny. I'm ruining your life, sweetheart,' Victor says she'd tell him, remind remind him, in her soiled robe, over the greasy dishes and sc.u.mmed silverware and smeared cups and gla.s.ses which by this time served as their everyday, almost unrecognizable now, almost, under the three- or four-day growth of mold, indistinguishable from the good stuff, the sterling and Aynsley china, the dirty novelty mugs and gla.s.ses, six-of-one, half-a-dozen-of-the-other, with the cups and crystals of sanity. Because that's why Victor, who'd prepare the meals but wouldn't do the dishes, who'd put fresh sheets on Danny's bed every five days-the girl came every week but couldn't get out of the d.a.m.n kitchen-but wouldn't change the ones he'd been sleeping on with Audrey for almost eleven, allowed the house to get in such a state in the first place. him, in her soiled robe, over the greasy dishes and sc.u.mmed silverware and smeared cups and gla.s.ses which by this time served as their everyday, almost unrecognizable now, almost, under the three- or four-day growth of mold, indistinguishable from the good stuff, the sterling and Aynsley china, the dirty novelty mugs and gla.s.ses, six-of-one, half-a-dozen-of-the-other, with the cups and crystals of sanity. Because that's why Victor, who'd prepare the meals but wouldn't do the dishes, who'd put fresh sheets on Danny's bed every five days-the girl came every week but couldn't get out of the d.a.m.n kitchen-but wouldn't change the ones he'd been sleeping on with Audrey for almost eleven, allowed the house to get in such a state in the first place.

"Not, Victor says, out of narrow principle say, you-made-your-bed, lie-in-it say, not out of that that principle at least. (He's ridden with guilt, George. principle at least. (He's ridden with guilt, George. He He tells me this, not the front desk.) As an object lesson, a lesson in objects. tells me this, not the front desk.) As an object lesson, a lesson in objects.

" 'I was trying to show her how easily the world is reclaimed by jungle. How simple it is to go mad. I thought I could shame her back into her senses. See? "See," I'd have had that house scream, "see?" What makes you you so special? I've gone bats too, the furniture has, the dishes and linen. Look at Dan, look at Danny. His clothes have gone nuts. It's 80 degrees, he's dressed for the winter!' so special? I've gone bats too, the furniture has, the dishes and linen. Look at Dan, look at Danny. His clothes have gone nuts. It's 80 degrees, he's dressed for the winter!'

"She must, Victor says, have thought he was was crazy. She didn't know where she was. There was soup in her bowl. She hadn't made it. If she'd been paying attention to what he was saying she might have thought he'd lost his mind in some swell restaurant. crazy. She didn't know where she was. There was soup in her bowl. She hadn't made it. If she'd been paying attention to what he was saying she might have thought he'd lost his mind in some swell restaurant.

"But then Victor came home one day from the office and the house was clean. Spotless. The living room had been cleared, the dining room, everything had been picked up, all the carpets vacuumed. There wasn't a dish in the sink. This was a Monday. The cleaning lady wasn't due till Wednesday. Victor says his heart turned over. He raced upstairs. Audrey was in bed, asleep on clean sheets.

" 'I didn't wake her. How could I? She must have been exhausted. Anyone would have been exhausted.

" 'So I didn't wake her. I just sat by the bed and cheered on her sleep. I sat there two hours. When she finally woke up she gave one of those great yawning stretches you imagine Rip Van Winkle must have given, or Sleeping Beauty, or someone recovered from coma. She blinked a few times to get her bearings and looked at me.

" ' "Oh," she said, "hi. You home from work? G.o.d, it's almost dark out. I'm sorry. I lay down for a nap. I must have fallen asleep."

" ' "Who wouldn't?" I said. "You worked like a horse. Are you feeling better?"

" ' "No," she said.

" ' "You tried to do too much. You should have saved a little for tomorrow. Then Dorothy comes on Wednesday."

" ' "Oh G.o.d," she said, "what are you talking about now? Leave me alone, will you? Or kill me. I just want to die." '

"Because he'd he'd done the dishes. Danny. The boy. He'd cleaned the place up. Victor knew it as soon as he heard him and turned, and saw him standing there, in the doorway, whimpering, sucking his thumb. done the dishes. Danny. The boy. He'd cleaned the place up. Victor knew it as soon as he heard him and turned, and saw him standing there, in the doorway, whimpering, sucking his thumb.

"He made the arrangements that night and packed her off to the asylum the next day.

" 'Now,' Victor says, 'we're just another broken family in July, me and the kid, driving back from Burger Chef in a blue K Car.' "

"Poor kid," George Mills said.

"Who?" Messenger said. "Danny? The h.e.l.l. He's in the ninety-ninth percentile. The little f.a.g reads six years above his grade level."

"That doctor's wife was over, that student, Mrs. Losey?"

"Nora," Messenger said. "Yes?"

"She was over to the house. Some sort of homework for her school. She took pictures."

"There's this rehab project."

"She the one flunking out?"

"On academic probation, right."

"Whose husband's having the affair?"

"With Jenny Greener, yes."

"A girl was with her. That was her name I think."

"They're cla.s.smates," Messenger said. "Nora introduced them."

"Then what happened?"

Because he was listening now. Because there were only reruns on television anyway and he was listening now. Salvation or no salvation. Listening despite himself. Because they could almost have been more Millses.

"He goes out of town," Messenger said. "He's much in demand. Symposiums. Universities. He's an expert in the new microsurgical stuff. Sutures finer than spider web. Instruments no bigger than computer chips. He can sew on your fingerprints, he can take out your germs. Like the little cobbler in fairy tale. He's much in demand. Sun Valley and Aspen, Fiji, the Alps. All the pricey climes of the medical--Palm Springs Memorial, the Grosse Point Clinic, Monaco Mercy, Grand Cayman General.

"He goes out of town. He lectures his colleagues. He screws their wives. Never the nurses, never the help.

"He says 'I won't touch a student. And my patients--forget it. If I touch a patient I've already scrubbed. I'm not talking what's ethical, what's professional or ain't. None of this has f.u.c.k-all to do with my Hippocratic oath. It's just I still think it's kicky I'm invited places. Maybe I'm spoiled. I won't cross a street if it's not on the arm. I won't take take a vacation. I've this thing for doctors' wives. a vacation. I've this thing for doctors' wives.

" 'Country club country. I love being made over, wined and dined, fussed. I never never get used to it. I don't think I will. get used to it. I don't think I will.

" 'Lunch turns me on. Tennis-togged women, ladies in tank tops. I like to take off their sweat bands. I love those little bracelets of the untan, the wrist hair where it's been pressed down under the elastic. I love the way it smells, sweat running with perfume and the better soaps. I like their jewelry, their diamond rings and great gold chains. I love the way their jewelry jewelry smells. You know what, Cornell? I can make out the karats, the troy grains in pearls. You believe me? It's true. The expensive like a whiff of sachet. I can smell money in a purse, coins, even checkbooks, the stamps in their pa.s.sports, plastic on charge cards, a Neiman-Marcus, a Saks. smells. You know what, Cornell? I can make out the karats, the troy grains in pearls. You believe me? It's true. The expensive like a whiff of sachet. I can smell money in a purse, coins, even checkbooks, the stamps in their pa.s.sports, plastic on charge cards, a Neiman-Marcus, a Saks.

" 'Christ I'm a b.a.s.t.a.r.d. I cheat on my wife. If I had a dollar ...' he tells me. (And I listen to this stuff, who got lucky maybe a dozen or so years ago, and that with a drunk, a woman under the influence, who may have been a little crazy behind behind the alcohol. But who celebrates the occasion-March 19-like some dear anniversary.) He tells me this s.h.i.t. the alcohol. But who celebrates the occasion-March 19-like some dear anniversary.) He tells me this s.h.i.t. Me. Me. So I tell you. You can't cheat on your wife, you cheat on your friends. So I tell you. You can't cheat on your wife, you cheat on your friends.

" 'We'll have left early,' he says, 'gone separate ways to the parking lot. She gets in my rental car or I get in hers, but I love when they they drive, when they take me 'cross bridges and she grabs the toll. When she picks the place, where we can go. Listen, it's Cairo, what do drive, when they take me 'cross bridges and she grabs the toll. When she picks the place, where we can go. Listen, it's Cairo, what do I I know? It's Cairo, it's Russia, it's somewhere South Seas. It isn't the money, you know that, Cornell. I'm the one being fussed. I've published the paper, made the keynote address. know? It's Cairo, it's Russia, it's somewhere South Seas. It isn't the money, you know that, Cornell. I'm the one being fussed. I've published the paper, made the keynote address.

" 'And maybe they are are nurses, or were before they married their husbands and became doctors' wives. h.e.l.l, I suppose lots of them nurses, or were before they married their husbands and became doctors' wives. h.e.l.l, I suppose lots of them were were nurses, most of them maybe. But up from the nursery and doctors' wives now. So it's all right, it's okay. nurses, most of them maybe. But up from the nursery and doctors' wives now. So it's all right, it's okay.

" 'Because I'm this sn.o.b of betrayal, this rat of sw.a.n.k. Your fop of collusion, your paste a.s.shole. And nothing against their husbands. On the contrary. They're pals, I like them. Every professional courtesy. I second their opinions. We wave on the slopes.' "

So Messenger told Mills of Losey's code.

"Code?" George said. "He's got f.u.c.kall to do with the Hippocratic oath, he's got a code? code?"

"Didn't I tell you?" Messenger said. "He goes out of town. He makes love on the beaches, on cruises, off sh.o.r.e. Everything handled, you know, discreet. s.h.i.t, Mills, I I don't know. Maybe there are gentlemen's agreements. Maybe they don't go to each other's papers. I don't know how it's done. A guy tells me he's been with a groupie I don't ask to see the matchbook from the restaurant. I'm an old-fashioned guy. People get laid it's a wonder to me you don't read about it in the paper. It's amazing there's no extra or the programs ain't interrupted. Someone makes love ... But that's just the point. don't know. Maybe there are gentlemen's agreements. Maybe they don't go to each other's papers. I don't know how it's done. A guy tells me he's been with a groupie I don't ask to see the matchbook from the restaurant. I'm an old-fashioned guy. People get laid it's a wonder to me you don't read about it in the paper. It's amazing there's no extra or the programs ain't interrupted. Someone makes love ... But that's just the point. That's That's Losey's code. You can wing it like birdies, do anything, everything. Just don't fall in love. Though that's the part I don't understand. I'd wonder who's kissing them now. Losey's code. You can wing it like birdies, do anything, everything. Just don't fall in love. Though that's the part I don't understand. I'd wonder who's kissing them now.