"That's not mud. It's slime."

"It's what?"

"Slime. That's slime. slime." I realized I had now said that word three times.

The gardener grimaced slightly. Kneeling down, he murmured a few noncommittal suggestions that I couldn't hear. I looked back at the pool man, who was dumping the crow into a white plastic bucket. A warm wind was rippling the water in the pool, and high white clouds moved swiftly across the sky, blocking the sun and darkening the spot where we were standing. This field is a graveyard, I suddenly told myself. The ground beneath us was jammed with dead bodies, and one of them had escaped. That's what caused the trail. That's what dragged itself toward our house. The sound of kids playing somewhere in the neighborhood-their cries of surprise and disappointment a.s.sociated with something living living-momentarily comforted me, and the Xanax had increased my blood flow to the point that I could inhale and exhale without my chest aching.

"I slipped in that last night," I finally said, and then added, before I could stop myself, "What made it?"

"What made made it?" he asked. "Well, it it?" he asked. "Well, it is is a slime trail of some kind." The gardener paused. "I'd say a snail, a slug, or a whole h.e.l.l of a lotta them made it but d.a.m.n . . . this is really too big for a . . . slug." He paused again. "Plus we haven't had any snail problems here." a slime trail of some kind." The gardener paused. "I'd say a snail, a slug, or a whole h.e.l.l of a lotta them made it but d.a.m.n . . . this is really too big for a . . . slug." He paused again. "Plus we haven't had any snail problems here."

I stood there, staring down at the gardener. "Too big for a slug, huh?" I sighed. "Well, that really sums it up nicely. This is encouraging."

The gardener stood up, still staring at the trail, perplexed. "And it smells smells funny-" funny-"

"Can you just get rid of it?" I asked, cutting him off.

"This is really weird . . ." he muttered, but so are you but so are you his expression told me. "Maybe it's that dog you've got such a problem with." He shrugged lamely, aiming for levity. his expression told me. "Maybe it's that dog you've got such a problem with." He shrugged lamely, aiming for levity.

"I wouldn't put it past him," I said. "He's capable of anything. He's got quite the att.i.tude."

We both turned and looked at Victor innocently lying on his side, oblivious. He slowly raised his head and, after a beat, yawned at us. It looked as if he were going to yawn a second time, but instead his head lolled forward and rested itself lazily on the deck, his tongue flopping out of his mouth.

"He's, um . . . bipolar," I told the gardener.

"Yeah, he looks like a problem . . . I guess," the gardener murmured.

I didn't say anything.

"I'll hose it down and . . . we'll just hope it doesn't come back."

(But it will, I heard the woods whispering.) I heard the woods whispering.) That was the extent of the conversation. It wasn't going to proceed anywhere else so I left the gardener and as I started walking back across the yard I could hear voices from the side of the house that faced the Allens'. I moved toward them.

When I came around the corner, Jayne was standing with our contractor, Omar (there had been lengthy discussions recently about adding a skylight in the foyer), and they both had the same stance: hands on hips, faces tilted upward toward the second floor. Jayne noticed me and actually smiled, which I took as an invitation to smile back and join them. Walking over I also looked up. Surrounding the large windows of the master bedroom, and above the French doors that framed the media room situated below it, were huge patches where the lily white paint was peeling off the side of the house, revealing a pink stucco underneath. Omar was holding an iced coffee from Starbucks, Persols pushed up on his forehead, totally confused. At first glance it looked as if the house was peeling randomly, as if someone had blindly sc.r.a.ped at the wall in a rushed and curving motion (could that have been what Robby heard in the middle of the night?), but the longer you stared at the swirling patches they began to seem patterned and deliberate, as if there was a message hidden in them, some code being spelled out. The wall was telling us (me) something. I know this wall, I thought to myself. I had seen it before. The wall was a page waiting to be read. At our feet were flakes of paint so finely ground that they resembled piles of flour.

"This shouldn't be happening," Omar said.

"Could it be kids? A Halloween prank?" I was asking. "Could it have happened the night of the party?" I paused and then, trying to gain favor with Jayne, added, "I bet Jay did it."

"No," Jayne said. "This started happening at the beginning of the summer and it's just been accelerating."

Omar touched the side of the house (I shuddered) and then brushed his palms off on his khakis. "Well, it looks like . . . claw marks," he said.

"Is that some kind of tool?" I asked. "What's a clawmark?"

"No-like something's clawing at it." And then Omar stopped. "But I don't know how anybody-whatever it was-got up there."

"Well, who lived here before?" I asked. "Maybe it's just naturally peeling." And then I reminded them of the heavy rains from late August and early September.

Jayne and Omar both glanced at me.

"What? I mean, why was this painted over?" I asked, shrugging. "That's . . . a nice color."

"The house is new, Bret," Jayne sighed. "There was no other paint."

"Plus that wasn't the base color," Omar added.

"Well, maybe the paint's oxidizing, y'know, the enamel, um, underneath?"

Frowning, Omar grew quickly tired of me and pulled out a cell phone.

Jayne took one more look at the wall and then turned my way. She seemed inordinately cheerful this morning, and when she looked at my face she smiled again. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and I reached out to touch it-a gesture that only widened the smile.

"I don't know why you're smiling, baby. There's a dead crow in our Jacuzzi."

"It must've happened after you got out of it last night."

"I didn't take a Jacuzzi last night, babe."

"Well, there was a wet pair of shorts on the railing by the deck."

"Yeah, I saw them but they aren't mine," I said. "Maybe Jay stopped by."

Jayne's forehead creased. "Are you sure they're not yours?"

"Yeah, I'm sure, and hey-did somebody from the decorating company come by this morning?"

"Yeah, they forgot a gravestone." She paused briefly. "And a skeleton and a few bats."

"That always happens on Sat.u.r.days, doesn't it?" I grinned and then, trying to keep everything on a light note, I asked the following in a manner as casual as possible: "Did you know that someone wrote my father's name on that headstone?"

"What are you talking about?" she asked.

"When I came back last night-wait, you're not mad at me because I got tired and had to skip out on trick-or-treating . . . are you?"

She sighed. "Look, it's the first of the month. Let's forget everything that's been happening and let's try to start over. How's that? Let's just start over. New beginnings."

The hangover vanished. The fear was gone. This could all work out, I thought.

"I love your recovery time," I said.

"Yeah, fast to get p.i.s.sed, faster to forgive."

"That's what I love and admire about you."

She flinched. "What-that I'm a total enabler?"

Behind her, Omar was on his cell, pacing and gesturing at the wall, which I couldn't help looking up at again. How could could something get up there? I wondered. something get up there? I wondered. What if it could fly? What if it could fly? came back in response. came back in response.

"What about the gravestone?" Jayne was asking. "Bret-h.e.l.lo?"

I made the effort and focused away from the wall and back on Jayne. "Yeah, when I came home last night I noticed it was left over from the party and when I went down to take a look at it I saw that somebody had written my dad's name on it . . . and they also knew his birth date and, um, the year he died."

Jayne's expression darkened. "Well, it wasn't there this morning."

"How do you know?"

"Because I took the guys out there when they removed it." She paused. "And there was nothing on it."

"Do . . . you think it rained last night?" I c.o.c.ked my head.

"Do . . . you think you had too much to drink last night?" She also c.o.c.ked her head, mimicking me.

"I'm not drinking, Jayne-" I stopped myself.

We studied each other for a long time. She won. I settled. I rose up to it.

"Okay," I said. "New beginnings."

I placed my hands on her shoulders, which caused her to smile ruefully at me.

"Hey-what's going on today?" I asked. "Where are the kids?"

"Sarah's upstairs doing homework and Robby's at soccer practice and when he returns you shall be taking them to the movies at the mall," she said in her "theatrical" voice.

"And of course you'll be accompanying us."

"Unfortunately, I will be with my trainer for most of the day at his small and lovely gymnasium downtown rehearsing for the reshoots. So, alas, you're on your own." She paused. "Think you can handle it?"

"Ah yes," I said. "You need to learn how to be flung around the top of a skysc.r.a.per at midnight. I forgot."

I swallowed hard. There was a slight tremor and then I accepted the reality of my Sat.u.r.day. I involuntarily glanced at the side of the house Omar was pacing beneath and the paint was the color of salmon and it was touching something in me, taking me back somewhere. Jayne spoke again.

"Yeah, sure, the mall . . ." I murmured rea.s.suringly.

"I'm going to ask you something and don't get mad." The smile was no longer there.

"Honey, I'm always furious so you can't make me mad."

"Have you had anything to drink today?"

An intake of breath on my part. This lack of trust was a horrible realization. It was such a pure and concerned question that I could not possibly be offended by it.

"No," I said in a small voice. "I just got up."

"You promise?" she asked.

My eyes started tearing. I felt awful. I hugged her. She let me and then gently broke away.

"I promise."

"Because you're driving the kids to the mall and, well . . ." The implication was strong enough that she didn't need to finish the sentence. She saw my reaction and tried to ask in a playful way, "Can I make sure?"

I decided to be playful too. "This is a very easy test to pa.s.s." I exhaled and then kissed her. Against me she felt soft and small.

The smile returned as I pulled back, yet she still seemed worried (would that ever leave?) when she asked, "And nothing else?"

"Honey, look, I wouldn't put myself myself behind the wheel of a car under the influence, let alone our kids, okay?" behind the wheel of a car under the influence, let alone our kids, okay?"

Her face softened and for the first time this morning she smiled genuinely, without forcing it, without any affectation. It was spontaneous and unrehea.r.s.ed.

This moved me to ask, "What? What is it?"

"You said something."

"What did I say?"

"You said 'our.' "

10. the mall

I had scanned the papers to see what was playing at the Fortinbras Mall sixteen-plex and chose something that wouldn't confuse Sarah or annoy Robby (a movie about a handsome teenage alien's disregard for authority and his subsequent reformation), and since I suspected there was no way Robby would have agreed to this excursion unless he'd been cajoled into it by Jayne (I didn't even want to imagine that scene-her pleading versus his furtive begging) I antic.i.p.ated that he wouldn't come without a fight, so I was surprised by how calm and placid Robby was (after a shower and a change of clothes) as he shuffled out the front door and walked with his head bowed down to the Range Rover, where Sarah sat in the front seat, trying to open a Backstreet Boys CD (which I eventually helped her with and slipped into the disc player), and where I was staring out the windshield thinking about my novel. When Robby climbed into the back seat I asked how soccer practice had gone, but he was too busy untangling the headphones to the Discman in his lap. So I asked again and all I got back from him was "It's soccer practice, Bret. What do you mean, how did it go?" This was not the way I wanted to spend my Sat.u.r.day- had scanned the papers to see what was playing at the Fortinbras Mall sixteen-plex and chose something that wouldn't confuse Sarah or annoy Robby (a movie about a handsome teenage alien's disregard for authority and his subsequent reformation), and since I suspected there was no way Robby would have agreed to this excursion unless he'd been cajoled into it by Jayne (I didn't even want to imagine that scene-her pleading versus his furtive begging) I antic.i.p.ated that he wouldn't come without a fight, so I was surprised by how calm and placid Robby was (after a shower and a change of clothes) as he shuffled out the front door and walked with his head bowed down to the Range Rover, where Sarah sat in the front seat, trying to open a Backstreet Boys CD (which I eventually helped her with and slipped into the disc player), and where I was staring out the windshield thinking about my novel. When Robby climbed into the back seat I asked how soccer practice had gone, but he was too busy untangling the headphones to the Discman in his lap. So I asked again and all I got back from him was "It's soccer practice, Bret. What do you mean, how did it go?" This was not the way I wanted to spend my Sat.u.r.day-Teenage p.u.s.s.y was waiting for me-but I owed Jayne this outing (and besides, Sat.u.r.days weren't mine anymore). The guilt that had been building since I moved into the house in July was announcing itself more clearly and it was coming down to: I was the one responsible for Robby's misery, yet Jayne was the one trying to cut the distance between me and him. She was the one on her knees pleading, and this reminded me again of why I was with her. was waiting for me-but I owed Jayne this outing (and besides, Sat.u.r.days weren't mine anymore). The guilt that had been building since I moved into the house in July was announcing itself more clearly and it was coming down to: I was the one responsible for Robby's misery, yet Jayne was the one trying to cut the distance between me and him. She was the one on her knees pleading, and this reminded me again of why I was with her.

"Seat belts on?" I asked cheerfully as I pulled out of the driveway.

"Mommy doesn't let me sit in the front seat," Sarah said. She was wearing a Liberty-print shirt with a Peter Pan collar and cotton velvet bootcut pants and a pure angora poncho. ("Are all six-year-olds dressing like Cher?" I asked Marta when she delivered Sarah to my office. Marta just shrugged and said, "I think she looks cute.") Sarah was holding a tiny h.e.l.lo Kitty purse that was filled with Halloween candy. She took a small canister and started popping Skittles into her mouth and throwing her head back as if they were prescription pills while kicking her legs up and down to the beat of the boy band.

"Why are you eating your candy that way, honey?"

"Because this is how Mommy does it when she's in the bathroom."

"Robby, will you take that candy away from your sister?"

"She's not my real sister," I heard from the back seat.

"Well, I'm not her real father," I said. "But that has nothing to do with what I just asked you."

I looked in the rearview mirror. Robby was glaring at me through his orange-tinted wraparounds, one eyebrow raised, while tugging uncomfortably at his crewneck merino sweater, which I was certain Jayne had forced him to wear.

"I can see that you're very cold and withdrawn today," I said.

"I need my allowance upped" was his response.

"I think if you were friendlier that wouldn't be a problem."