But Abigail, picking at the bandages on her face, squinting into her compact mirror, said, sighing, "I feel it, you know. My age." "Your age?" Roger laughed. "You're the youngest of us all." "No. Marina Troy is the youngest." Roger went quiet, wondering what Abigail knew of him and Marina. In Salthill, that pond of teeming algae, everyone seemed to know everyone else's affairs despite the greatest efforts to maintain secrecy. As if she could read Roger's thoughts, delicately Abigail brought up the subject of the letters and cards she'd sent to Adam, had Roger come across them amid Adam's papers?

"No. Don't worry."

"Oh, I'm not worried. It's nothing to be ashamed of. Loving." Abigail peeled off one of the smaller bandages, lifting her chin. Her face resembled an exquisite vase that has been mysteriously smudged, cracked. "Even when you're not loved in return."

"Adam loved you, Abigail."

"Did he?"

"In his way."

"Did he ever-talk about me with you?"

"You know Adam had too much tact for that."

"Yes, but-did he ever talk about women with you?"

"Not really."

J C O*

"Do you know if he was married, ever?"

Abigail spoke anxiously. Roger was annoyed, this should mean so much to her even now! "No. I doubt it."

"You do?" Abigail considered this. "But Adam was a man you would swear must be a father. He should have been a father. He loved children, and he loved-well, life. But-he hadn't had children? This rumor about grown children of his coming forward to make claims on his estate-"

"There's no truth to that," Roger said, irritably. "We can't locate any heirs."

"It's still early, isn't it? Heirs may show up."

"Yes. But somehow, I doubt it."

"Why would a man like Adam, such a good man, not have children; and a man like Harry Tierney, who isn't at all a good man, and frankly hates life, have a child?-a son? And want so badly to hang on to him?"

Abigail shook her head, sighing. "It seems wrong."

"It is illogical," Roger said. "Adam would have agreed."

After a while Abigail said, as if unable to resist, "Adam was a gambler, you know. I mean sometimes. In Vegas."

"Was he?"

"One year, * I think, he 'earned' eleven thousand dollars. He had to report it to the IRS!"

In fact, Roger knew this. And he knew more. But he said only, admiringly, "That's a lot of money, he must've been serious. I suppose- poker?"

"I guess. He wouldn't talk about it much. He did seem ashamed. Or maybe he pretended to be ashamed, to keep it to himself. Gambling was some kind of experimenting with him, he said; with, like, the universe, and its 'intersection' with his own mind. He didn't seem to be serious about anything," Abigail said, thoughtfully, "that was only just, you know, an action." What a strange, unexpected thing for this woman to say! Roger was impressed that, since the accident, so very recently, Abigail Des Pres was becoming a more thoughtful person; unless it was since Adam's death.

"To be serious about any action, if it's only just an 'action,' is to commit yourself to some principle it represents, assuming some kind of future, and this, I think, Adam never did. No, he wasn't serious about gambling because it was just making money, business, in another guise. He despised all that. He was only serious about life, and that's something you can't talk about."

Middle Age: A Romance **

"He sought the truth. Like Socrates."

"Socrates!" Abigail sounded uncertain. "He's a character invented by- is it Plato? Or are they two separate people?"

Roger had to think. "It's believed they were two people. But, who knows-it was a long time ago."

"How long? A thousand years?"

"More like two thousand."

"Two thousand! And we live so briefly." Abigail sighed, and touched her tender skin with her fingertips. In the corner of his eye Roger saw her glittering rings, which somehow assured him. No woman can be profound whose fingers glitter with expensive rings. "Strange that Adam would care so much, isn't it? About those long-ago people. He didn't believe in time, maybe? That human beings change much? That we 'progress.' "

"No. But he didn't believe in the reverse, either. What about you?"

"Me?" Abigail laughed, showing her perfect white teeth like another accessory. "What does it matter what I think? A cast-off wife, and now a cast-off mother. I'm"-she wiped at her eyes with a carefully folded tissue-"pond scum."

Roger laughed, in that instant disliking the woman. Abigail Des Pres was still Harry Tierney's wife. "Well. So are we all, I suppose."

"But we try to be more, don't we?" Abigail pleaded. She touched Roger's wrist, sensing she was losing his sympathy. And she was a woman whose nourishment was sympathy. "Some of us try so very hard."

"Yes. I suppose."

Roger drove the rest of the way to Salthill in silence.

In Abigail's darkened house, Roger set her suitcase down in the vestibule and would have quickly departed except Abigail seized both his hands in hers. "Roger! I'm afraid, I can't be alone. Not just yet." If he'd been vigilant enough, and forceful enough, he might have escaped; but a perverse inertia gripped him, like quicksand. Soft and yielding as water, yet possessed of a childlike will, Abigail stepped into his arms and held him; her own arms were thin, trembling, but strong. "We have so much in common, Roger. I've been watching you for years. We've both been wounded. And we have children the same age. Like brother and sister they are. That does link us, doesn't it?" She spoke wistfully, raising her face to his. Roger felt a thrill of panic, and a razor-sharp stab of sexual longing. I am so physically lonely. God help me. The woman's luminous bruised face, her luridly blackened eye excited him; as if he were the *

J C O*

cause of her hurt, himself. "I'll never see Adam again. I'll never see Jared again, I know it." She spoke almost calmly, she was resigned. As if in fact she'd killed her own son, and there was a bitter satisfaction in this, as there would be in Roger if Robin ceased to love him, and joined with her mother in despising him, there would be a bitter satisfaction. "Love me?

Just a little? Please." She was kissing him avidly, and Roger found himself kissing her, in the shadowy cathedral-ceilinged living room of the house, the scene of so many parties. As if those years of parties were a prelude solely to this, an exquisite consummation. Roger and Abigail staggered to a silk-upholstered sofa and fell clumsily together. They were excited, breathless, fumbling as adolescents. Abigail's breath was fierce as licorice. "I love you, oh, I love you, love you." Roger supposed she no longer had any idea who he was, she'd lost his name. And he was forgetting her name, and where they were. In haste, pushing aside, knocking to the floor, what were they?-small but bulky silk-covered pillows. God damn! They began to make love, how quickly and easily it was happening, the woman's slender thighs, the woman's suddenly bared, very warm belly, a soft-curly swath of pubic hair like down, as if their eager ferretlike bodies had taken control, their personalities were nulled, obliterated. A woman's fleshy, ravenous mouth against Roger's mouth, it might be any woman's mouth, or any mouth, Roger was immensely happy suddenly, knowing that the pressure in his groin would soon be relieved, would explode in a delirium of brainless pleasure. "Do you love me? A little?" the woman was pleading, "-say you do. You can lie to me. Oh, please!" Boldly she was pulling open his shirt, her fingers worked at his trousers, Roger pushed them away to open his trousers himself, his penis lifting hard, hot as a boy's, and the woman was guiding him into her, shimmering as a pool of water, except suddenly an agitated sound interrupted them. "What? What was that?" Tense as drawn bows they lay together, listening. A strand of the woman's hair was caught in Roger's mouth. Her narrow rib cage, beneath his, rose and fell anxiously. At first, the sound seemed to be in the room with them, in a darkened corner-or in the fireplace perhaps? Then, it was evident that the sound came from outside, a frenzied scratching at the front door.

Apollo?

Middle Age: A Romance *

T R limping and thudding down the stairs.

Seeing him staring at her, she said, teasing, an angry flush rising into her face, "Guess I've grown some, huh, Dad, since you saw me last year?"

His first surprise, no, it was frank shock and disappointment, and it must have shown in his face: Robin had dressed for dinner in baggy un-clean pants, a parrot-green Ryecroft hockey T-shirt with a flannel shirt partway buttoned over it, straining against her big, broad breasts, and filthy running shoes. Her hair, damp from the shower, hung lank and limp about her round childish face; her skin shone coarsely, as if she'd rubbed it with a washcloth. Amid the prettier, more girllike, more attractively dressed Ryecroft girls Roger had been observing in the residence hall, Robin stood out as defiant, conspicuous. Seeing her dad trying to smile at her she laughed outright at him. A quick cruel smile tightened her jaws.

Roger's face burned, he would let the remark pass. The implication that Roger hadn't seen her since the previous year when in fact he'd seen her more recently, and she knew it. The implication that he might be dis-comfited-disturbed-by her maturing body, her sizable breasts and hips.

Roger said, trying to sound neither severe nor pleading, "This inn we're going to, it's a nice place, honey. I was expecting you to dress a little more-"

Robin laughed. " 'Nice'? You're dressed 'nice' enough for us both."

Her duffel bag was slung over her back, Robin refused to carry her things in a suitcase. When Roger offered to take the bag from her, she resisted. "It's how I build my muscle, Dad." Roger recalled Lee Ann saying that their daughter had become, in the past year, obsessed with hockey, and with other sports at her school. He felt dismay: was this antagonistic young person his daughter, a plain homely chunky girl with dangerously bright eyes, watching him defiantly, daring him to criticize her? For a half hour Roger had been waiting for her in the visitors' lounge of the residence hall, having to observe other girls, not wanting to compare his daughter with these girls yet unable not to think, with a sinking heart, What a crapshoot, fatherhood. I played, and fucked it.

For all her insouciance, Robin's eyes brimmed with emotion Roger wasn't about to provoke. Not him! It was the first phase of the father-daughter weekend. Lee Ann had told him that Robin never ("repeat: *

J C O*

never") spoke of him any longer, obviously Robin was furious with him, he meant to regain her love for him, her trust. He said, sympathetically, "Well. You look fine, honey. We could always have dinner somewhere else.

The crucial thing is, you didn't get hurt out there."

Robin had been smiling, mugging, for the benefit of others, a group of girls dressed like herself, and turned her attention back to Roger, saying hotly, "It does hurt, not just my ankle but all over. I'm banged up like hell.

But I'm not, you know, hurt. Like needing an X ray or the infirmary or whatever."

They left the residence hall, something must have been decided. Robin was jocosely complaining of the aches, bruises, sprains you had to endure playing hockey. All the girls were banged up, even the stars. It was, like, a "badge of courage." One of the centers, the girl with the platinum-blond hair, the very best player on the Ryecroft team, ached so much sometimes she could "hardly lift her head" from the pillow, waking next morning after a game. As they crossed the quad, Robin waved and exchanged loud greetings with a number of students, both boys and girls, Roger was given to understand that she was a popular kid, a school personality. She was called "Robin," "Robbie," "Rob." Her eyes gleamed with a sort of frantic pleasure. She walked fast and hard, on the heels of her feet, Roger had to hurry to keep pace. "You seem to like it here, honey? That's good."

Robin shrugged, Dad's remark was too banal to warrant a reply.

In the car headed for the Hanover Inn, Roger tried to talk to Robin about the game, wanting to praise her, he understood that she was seething, still excited, though physically tired, and resentful, no doubt there were turbulent emotions connected with the team and the coach who'd pulled her out of the game, but Robin answered only in grunts.

Roger asked her how she liked her teammates, they seemed like "nice girls," and Robin snorted with laughter. "Oh, Dad. 'Nice.' You're like Mom. Your vocabulary is so limited." Roger laughed, for this was true, not that Roger Cavanagh was nice, in fact Roger Cavanagh was not- nice, but there were words you said, like fine, even great, and these were code words whose meaning had long since dissipated. Roger said, "Well. They did seem-'nice.' Just in the few minutes I met them. You all get along so well . . ."

Robin said with a shrug, in a suddenly somber tone, "Why ask me how I like them? It's if they like me that matters."

To this, Roger had no reply.

Middle Age: A Romance *

Wondering: does she matter so little to herself, her own feelings don't count?

"Let's face it, Dad: if they liked me better, I'd like them."

"I thought you did like them. I thought-"

"Oh, sure. I'm crazy about them." Robin laughed, wiping at her nose with the edge of her hand. She sat with one muscled leg crossed over the other, at the knee; her calf bulged against the khaki pant-leg. From time to time she rubbed her ankle, the flesh of her lower leg. She wore white cotton socks very like his own. Roger caught a glimpse of raw, reddened skin.

He said, "I hope to hell that isn't a sprain. Why didn't you let somebody check it?" Robin shrugged. Roger said, "If it doesn't get better, we can take you to a doctor in the morning."

Robin made a gagging noise.

"Oh, sure, Dad. Real cool. Instead of going to the Air and Space Museum."

"If you're injured-"

"I am not injured. I'm tougher than you think. I'm not pretty-pretty like Mom, she melts in the rain practically. Or pretends to. So Georgie can come mop her up." Robin laughed harshly.

Roger wasn't going to follow her in that direction, no thanks!

Tenderly he said, "You girls certainly played well. Both sides. Everybody I was near, watching, was impressed. I was impressed. I hope you weren't disappointed, honey, being taken out. Your coach had to do that.

You certainly were playing well-"

Robin interrupted, impatient, "I played lousy. It was my worst game this year. Even practice."

"But when I first arrived-"

"That's just it!" Robin said, excited. "Before you came, I was hot. I almost made a score. I got the ball away from their hotshot player. Then, when I see you there, and could feel you watching-and, like, willing me not to fuck up-for sure, I did."

Roger was so stunned by this outburst, he drove in silence. His daughter had uttered the word fuck to him! The first time. And in that rude way.

And she was blaming him for her poor performance. He said, hurt, "Robin, I don't think that's fair or even logical. You wanted me to come see you play, and so I did. And you didn't play badly-"

"I did. I played 'badly.' I turned my ankle on purpose and fell, because I knew I was going to be benched." Robin spoke indignantly, as if her dad *

J C O*

was such a fool he required these simple, demeaning explanations from her. "And it was because of you, your presence. You always ruin everything."

"Always? What-?"

"One of our teachers says, there is such a mental phenomenon as 'telepathy.' Some people send signals, other people receive. You, Dad, are a sender. And the signals you send, they're bad news to the receivers."

Roger said, "That is pure bullshit."

"You should know."

"What's that mean?"

Robin shrugged. She turned on the radio, punched through a half-dozen stations. They drove on. Blurred suburban landscape. Growing Friday-evening traffic. He should have had two drinks, he'd have had enough time. Abigail Des Pres was right: she and Roger had this in common. Adolescent children. It was a true bond, like hemophilia or hemor-rhoids.

In her e-mail messages to Roger, Robin sometimes addressed him as DEARDEADDAD. Was that funny? It was not funny. He'd never responded, he ignored it. Frequently Robin signed off her brief, cryptic messages with LOVEYLOVE FROM NIBOR. "Robin" spelled backward.

Was that funny?

Roger said, "Robin, honey, it hurts me to see you like this. I'd been looking forward to this weekend. Is something wrong?"

"Our teacher says life is 'essentially' wrong. Because Nature is a continuous struggle, species pitted against one another and, within the species, individuals pitted against individuals. 'Red in tooth and claw.' Who'd have designed that, for Christ's sake?"

Roger glanced at his daughter in alarm. Such emotion in this child, you'd think Darwinian evolutionary theory was a new, radical idea.

Maybe, if you're fifteen and just starting to seriously think, it is?

Roger protested, "But your teacher must have told you that human life has evolved beyond that level. We have civilization, we have morality, law-"