"Sherman, now I want you to listen to me." She said it with such a calm maternal kindness, it was eerie. "I'm not responding like a good wife, am I. I want to. But how can I? I want to offer you my love, or if not my love, my...what?...my sympathy, my closeness, my comfort. But I can't. I can't even pretend. You haven't let me near you. Do you understand that? You haven't let me near you. You have deceived me, Sherman. Do you know what that means, to deceive deceive someone?" She said this with the same maternal kindness as the rest. someone?" She said this with the same maternal kindness as the rest.

"Deceive? Good Lord, it was a flirtation, if it was anything. If you...make eyes at somebody...you can call that deceit if you want, but I wouldn't call it that."

She put on the slight smile again and shook her head. "Sherman, Sherman, Sherman."

"I swear that's the truth."

"Oh, I don't know what you did with your Maria Ruskin, and I don't care. I just don't. That's the least of it, but I don't think you understand that."

"The least of what what?"

"What you've done to me, and not just to me. To Campbell."

"Campbell!"

"To your family. We are are a family. This thing, this thing affecting all of us, it happened two weeks ago, and you said nothing about it. You hid it from me. You sat right next to me, in this very room, and watched that news report, the demonstration, and you didn't say a word. Then the police came to our home-the a family. This thing, this thing affecting all of us, it happened two weeks ago, and you said nothing about it. You hid it from me. You sat right next to me, in this very room, and watched that news report, the demonstration, and you didn't say a word. Then the police came to our home-the police police!-to our home!- our home!-I even asked you why you were in such a state, and you pretended it was a coincidence. And then-that same night- same night-you sat next to your...your friend...your accomplice...your sidekick...you tell me what to call her...and you still said nothing. You let me think nothing was wrong. You let me go on having my foolish dreams, and you let Campbell go on having her childish dreams, of being a normal little girl in a normal family, playing with her little friends, making her little rabbits and turtles and penguins. The night the world the world was learning of was learning of your escapade your escapade, Campbell was showing you a rabbit she made out of clay. Do you remember that? Do you? And you just looked looked at it and said at it and said all the right things all the right things! And now you come home"-all at once her eyes were full of tears-"at the end of the day and you tell me...you're...gonna...be...arrested...in...the...morning."

The sentence was gulped down in sobs. Sherman stood up. Should he try to put his arms around her? Or would it only make it worse? He took a step toward her.

She sat up straight and held her hands up before her in a very delicate, tentative way.

"Don't," she said softly. "Just listen to what I'm telling you." Her cheeks were streaked with tears. "I'm going to try to help you, and I'm going to try to help Campbell, in any way I can. But I can't give you my love, and I can't give you tenderness. I'm not that good an actress. I wish I were, because you're going to need love and tenderness, Sherman."

Sherman said, "Can't you forgive me?"

"I suppose I could," she said. "But what would that change?"

He had no answer.

He spoke to Campbell in her bedroom. Just walking in was enough to break his heart. Campbell was sitting at her table (a round table with about eight hundred dollars' worth of flowered cotton fabric from Laura Ashley hanging to the floor and a piece of beveled gla.s.s costing $280 covering the top) or, rather, she was halfway on top of it, with her head close to the surface, in an att.i.tude of intense concentration, printing some letters with a big pink pencil. It was the perfect little girl's room. Dolls and stuffed animals were perched everywhere. They were on the white-enameled bookcases with their ribbed pilasters and on the pair of miniature boudoir chairs (more flowered fabric from Laura Ashley). They were perched up against the ribbon-back Chippendale headboard of the bed and the ribbon-back footboard and upon the lacy and carefully thought-out clutter of pillows and on the pair of round bedside tables with another fortune in fabric falling to the floor. Sherman had never begrudged a cent of the stupendous sums of money Judy had put into this one room, and he certainly did not now. His heart was lacerated by the thought that he now had to find the words to tell Campbell that the dream world of this room was finished, many years too soon.

"Hi, sweetheart, what are you doing?"

Without looking up: "I'm writing a book."

"Writing a book! That's wonderful. What's it about?"

Silence; without looking up; hard at work.

"Sweetie, I want to talk to you about something, something very important."

She looked up. "Daddy, can you make a book?"

Make a book? "Make a book? I'm not sure what you mean." "Make a book? I'm not sure what you mean."

"Make a book!" A bit exasperated by his denseness.

"You mean actually make make one? No, they do that at a factory." one? No, they do that at a factory."

"MacKenzie's making one. Her dad is helping her. I want to make one."

Garland Reed and his d.a.m.nable so-called books. Avoiding the issue: "Well, first you have to write your book."

Big smile: "I writed it!" She gestured toward the piece of paper on the table.

"You wrote it?" He never corrected her mistakes in grammar directly.

"Yes! Will you help me make a book?"

Helplessly, sadly: "I'll try."

"You want to read it?"

"Campbell, there's something very important I want to talk to you about. I want you to listen very carefully to what I tell you."

"You want to read it?"

"Campbell-" A sigh; helpless against her single-mindedness. "Yes. I'd love to read it."

Modestly: "It's not very long." She picked up several pieces of paper and handed them to him.

In large, careful letters: The Koala by Campbell McCoy There was once a koala. His name was Kelly. He lived in the woods. Kelly had lots of friends. One day someone went on a hike and ate Kelly's food.He was very sad. He wanted to see the city. Kelly went to the city. He also wanted to see bildings. As soon as he was about to get hold of a n.o.b to open a door, a dog rushed by! But he did not get Kelly. Kelly jumped in a window. And by mistake he pressed the alarm. Then the polees cars were zooming by. Kelly was scared. Kelly finly escaped.Someone caught Kelly and brought him to the zoo. Now Kelly loves the zoo.

Sherman's skull seemed to fill with steam. It was about himself! For an instant he wondered if in some inexplicable way she had divined... divined...picked up the sinister emanations...if it were somehow in the very air of their home...By mistake he pressed the alarm. Then the police cars were zooming by!...It couldn't be...and yet there it was!

"You like it?"

"Yes, uh...I, uh..."

"Daddy! You like it?"

"It's wonderful, darling. You're very talented...Not many girls your age-not many...it's wonderful..."

"Now will you help me make the book?"

"I-there's something I have to tell you, Campbell. Okay?"

"Okay. You really like it?"

"Yes, it's wonderful. Campbell, I want you to listen to me. Okay? Now, Campbell, you know that people don't always tell the truth about other people."

"The truth?"

"Sometimes people say bad things, things that aren't true."

"What?"

"Sometimes people say bad things about other people, things they shouldn't say, things that make the other person feel bad. Do you know what I mean?"

"Daddy, should I draw a picture of Kelly for the book?"

Kelly? "Please listen to me, Campbell. This is important." "Please listen to me, Campbell. This is important."

"Ohhhh-kayyy." Weary sigh.

"Do you remember one time MacKenzie said something that wasn't nice about you, something that wasn't true?"

"MacKenzie?" Now he had her attention.

"Yes. Remember, she said you..." For the life of him, he couldn't remember what MacKenzie had said. "I think she said you weren't her friend."

"MacKenzie's my best friend, and I'm her best friend."

"I know. That's just the point. She said something that wasn't true. She didn't mean it, but she said it, and sometimes people do that. They say things that hurt other people, and maybe they don't mean to do it, but they do it, and it hurts the other person, and that's not the right thing to do."

"What?"

Plowing on: "It isn't just children. Sometimes it's grown-ups. Grown-ups can be mean like that, too. In fact, they can be worse. Now, Campbell, I want you to listen to me. There are some people who are saying very bad things about me, things that aren't true."

"They are?"

"Yes. They're saying I hit a boy with my car and hurt him badly. Please look at me, Campbell. Now, that isn't true. I didn't do any such thing, but there are bad people who are saying that, and you may hear people say that, but all you have to know is, it isn't true. Even if they say it's true, you know it isn't true."

"Why don't you tell them it isn't true?"

"I will, but these people may not want to believe me. There are bad people who want to believe bad things about other people."

"But why don't you tell tell them?" them?"

"I will. But these bad people are going to put these bad things in the newspaper and on television, and so people are going to believe them, because they will read it in the newspapers and see it on television. But it isn't true. And I don't care what they think, but I do care what you think, because I love you, Campbell, I love you very much, and I want you to know that your daddy is a good person who didn't do what these people are saying."

"You'll be in the newspaper? You'll be on television?"

"I'm afraid so, Campbell. Probably tomorrow. And your friends at school may say something to you about it. But you mustn't pay any attention to them, because you'll know that what's in the newspaper and on television isn't true. Don't you, sweetie?"

"Does that mean you'll be famous?"

"Famous?"

"Will you be in history, Daddy?"

History? "No, I won't be in history, Campbell. But I'll be smeared, vilified, dragged through the mud." "No, I won't be in history, Campbell. But I'll be smeared, vilified, dragged through the mud."

He knew she wouldn't understand a word of it. It just popped out, prodded by the frustration of trying to explain the press to a six-year-old.

Something in his face she understood well enough. With great seriousness and tenderness she looked into his eyes and said: "Don't worry, Daddy. I love you."

"Campbell-"

He took her in his arms and buried his head on her shoulder to hide his tears.

There was once a koala and a pretty little room where soft sweet creatures lived and slept the trusting sleep of the innocent, and now there was none.

22. Styrofoam Peanuts

Sherman turned over onto his left side, but soon his left knee developed an ache, as if the weight of his right leg were cutting off the circulation. His heart was beating a little fast. He turned over onto his right side. Somehow the heel of his right hand ended up under his right cheek. It felt as if he needed it to support his head, because the pillow wasn't enough, but that made no sense, and anyhow, how could he possibly get to sleep with his hand under his head? A little fast, that was all...It wasn't running away...He turned back onto his left side and then rolled over flat on his stomach, but that put a strain on the small of his back, and so he rolled back over on his right side. He usually slept on his right side. His heart was going faster now. But it was an even beat. He still had it under control.

He resisted the temptation to open his eyes and check out the intensity of the light under the Roman shades. The line gradually brightened toward dawn, so that you could always tell when it was getting on toward 5:30 or 6:00 at this time of year. Suppose it was brightening already! But that couldn't be. It couldn't be more than three o'clock, 3:30 at the worst. But maybe he had slept for an hour or so without knowing it!-and suppose the lines of light- He could resist no longer. He opened his eyes. Thank G.o.d; still dim; so he was still safe.

With that-his heart bolted away from him. It began pounding at a terrific rate and with terrific force, trying to escape from his rib cage. It made his whole body shake. What did it matter whether he had a few more hours to lie here writhing on his bed or whether the heat of the dawn had already cooked up under the shades and the time had come- I'm going to jail.

With his heart pounding and his eyes open, he was now terribly conscious of being alone in this vast bed. Billows of silk hung down from the ceiling at the four corners of the bed. More than $125 a yard the silk had cost. It was Judy's Decorator approximation of a royal bedchamber from the eighteenth century. Royal! Royal! What a mockery it was of himself, a throbbing lump of flesh and fear cowering in bed in the dead of the night! What a mockery it was of himself, a throbbing lump of flesh and fear cowering in bed in the dead of the night!

I'm going to jail.

If Judy had been here next to him, if she hadn't gone to bed in the guest bedroom, he would have put his arms around her and held on for dear life. He wanted to embrace her, longed for it- And with the next breath: What good would that do? What good would that do? None whatsoever. It would make him feel even weaker and more helpless. Was she asleep? What if he walked into the guest room? She often slept flat on her back, like a rec.u.mbent statue, like the statue of...He couldn't remember whose statue it was. He could see the slightly yellowish marble and the folds in the sheet that covered the body-someone famous, beloved and dead. Well, down the hall Campbell was asleep, for sure. He knew that much. He had looked in her room and watched her for a minute, as if this were the last time he would ever see her. She slept with her lips slightly parted and her body and soul utterly abandoned to the security and peace of her home and family. She had gone to sleep almost at once. Nothing that he had said to her was real None whatsoever. It would make him feel even weaker and more helpless. Was she asleep? What if he walked into the guest room? She often slept flat on her back, like a rec.u.mbent statue, like the statue of...He couldn't remember whose statue it was. He could see the slightly yellowish marble and the folds in the sheet that covered the body-someone famous, beloved and dead. Well, down the hall Campbell was asleep, for sure. He knew that much. He had looked in her room and watched her for a minute, as if this were the last time he would ever see her. She slept with her lips slightly parted and her body and soul utterly abandoned to the security and peace of her home and family. She had gone to sleep almost at once. Nothing that he had said to her was real...arrest...newspapers... "You'll be in history?"...If only he knew what she was thinking! Supposedly children picked up things in more ways than you knew, from the tone of your voice, the look on your face...But Campbell seemed to know only that something sad and exciting was about to happen, and her father was unhappy. Utterly insulated from the world...in the bosom of her family...her lips slightly parted...just down the hall...For her sake he had to pull himself together. And for the moment, anyway, he did. His heart slowed down. He began to take command of his body again. He would be strong for her, if for no one else on earth. "You'll be in history?"...If only he knew what she was thinking! Supposedly children picked up things in more ways than you knew, from the tone of your voice, the look on your face...But Campbell seemed to know only that something sad and exciting was about to happen, and her father was unhappy. Utterly insulated from the world...in the bosom of her family...her lips slightly parted...just down the hall...For her sake he had to pull himself together. And for the moment, anyway, he did. His heart slowed down. He began to take command of his body again. He would be strong for her, if for no one else on earth. I am a man I am a man. When he had to fight, he had fought. He had fought in the jungle, and he had won. The furious moment when he thrust the tire at the...brute...The brute was sprawled on the pavement...Henry!...If he had to, he would fight again. How bad could it be?

Last night, as long as he was talking to Killian, he had it worked out in his mind. It wasn't going to be so bad. Killian explained every step. It was a formality, not a pleasant formality, but not like really going to jail, either. It would not be like an ordinary arrest. Killian would see to that, Killian and his friend Fitzgibbon. A contract. Not like an ordinary arrest, not like an ordinary arrest; he clung to this phrase, "not like an ordinary arrest." Like what, then? He tried to picture how it was going to be, and before he knew it, his heart was racing, fleeing, panicked, amok with fear.

Killian had arranged it so that the two detectives, Martin and Goldberg, would drive by and pick him up about 7:30 on their way to work on the 8:00 a.m. shift in the Bronx. They both lived on Long Island, and they drove to the Bronx every day, and so they would make a detour and drive by and pick him up on Park Avenue. Killian would be here when they arrived, and he would ride up to the Bronx with him and be there when they arrested arrested him-and this was him-and this was special treatment special treatment.

Lying there in bed, with cascades of $125-a-yard silk at every corner, he closed his eyes and tried to think it through. He would get in the car with the two detectives, the small one and the fat one. Killian would be with him. They would go up the FDR Drive to the Bronx. The detectives would get him to Central Booking first thing, as the new shift began, and he would go through the process first, before the day's buildup of cases. Central Booking-but what was it? Last night it had been a name Killian had used so matter-of-factly. But now, lying here, he realized he had no idea what it would look like. The process-what process? Being arrested! Being arrested! Despite everything Killian had tried to explain, it was unimaginable. He would be fingerprinted. Despite everything Killian had tried to explain, it was unimaginable. He would be fingerprinted. How? How? And his fingerprints would be transmitted to Albany by a computer. Why? To make sure there were no warrants for his arrest already outstanding. But surely they knew better! Until the report from Albany came back, via the computer, he would have to wait in the detention pens. Pens! That was the word Killian kept using. And his fingerprints would be transmitted to Albany by a computer. Why? To make sure there were no warrants for his arrest already outstanding. But surely they knew better! Until the report from Albany came back, via the computer, he would have to wait in the detention pens. Pens! That was the word Killian kept using. Pens!- Pens!-for what sort of animals! As if reading his mind, Killian had told him not to worry about the things you read about concerning jails. The unmentioned term was h.o.m.os.e.xual rape h.o.m.os.e.xual rape. The pens were temporary cells for people who had been arrested and were awaiting arraignment. Since arrests in the early daylight hours were rare, he might very well have the place to himself. After the report came back, he would go upstairs to appear before a judge. Upstairs! Upstairs! But what did that mean? Upstairs from what? He would plead not guilty and be released on $10,000 bail-tomorrow-in a few hours-when the dawn cooks up the light beneath the shade- But what did that mean? Upstairs from what? He would plead not guilty and be released on $10,000 bail-tomorrow-in a few hours-when the dawn cooks up the light beneath the shade- I'm going to jail-as the man who ran down a black honor student and left him to die!

His heart was beating violently now. His pajamas were wet with perspiration. He had to stop thinking. He had to close his eyes. He had to sleep. He tried to focus on an imaginary point between his eyes. Behind his eyelids...little movies...curling forms...a pair of puffy sleeves...They turned into a shirt, his own white shirt. Nothing too good, Killian said, because the holding pens might be filthy. But a suit and tie, of course, nonetheless, since this was not an ordinary arrest, not an ordinary arrest...The old blue-gray tweed suit, the one made in England...a white shirt, a solid navy tie or maybe the medium-blue tie with the pin dots...No, the navy tie, which would be dignified but not at all showy-for going to jail in!

He opened his eyes. The silk billowed down from the ceiling. "Get a grip on yourself!" He said it out loud. Surely this was not actually about to happen. I'm going to jail I'm going to jail.

About 5:30, with the light turning yellow under the shade, Sherman gave up on the idea of sleep, or even rest, and got up. To his surprise, it made him feel a little better. His heartbeat was rapid, but he had the panic under control. It helped to be doing something, if only taking a shower and putting on the blue-gray tweed suit and the navy necktie...my jail outfit. The face he saw in the mirror didn't look as tired as he felt. The Yale chin; he looked looked strong. strong.

He wanted to eat breakfast and be out of the apartment before Campbell got up. He wasn't sure he could be brave enough in front of her. He also didn't want to have to talk to Bonita. It would be too awkward. As for Judy, he didn't know what he wanted. He didn't want to see the look in her eye, which was the numb look of someone betrayed but also shocked and frightened. Yet he wanted his wife his wife with him. In fact, he had scarcely had a gla.s.s of orange juice before Judy arrived in the kitchen, dressed and ready for the day. She hadn't had much more sleep than he had. A moment later Bonita came in from the servants' wing and quietly began fixing them breakfast. Soon enough Sherman was glad Bonita was there. He didn't know what to say to Judy. With Bonita present he obviously wouldn't be able to say much. He could barely eat. He had three cups of coffee in hopes of clearing his head. with him. In fact, he had scarcely had a gla.s.s of orange juice before Judy arrived in the kitchen, dressed and ready for the day. She hadn't had much more sleep than he had. A moment later Bonita came in from the servants' wing and quietly began fixing them breakfast. Soon enough Sherman was glad Bonita was there. He didn't know what to say to Judy. With Bonita present he obviously wouldn't be able to say much. He could barely eat. He had three cups of coffee in hopes of clearing his head.

At 7:15 the doorman called up to say that Mr. Killian was downstairs. Judy walked with Sherman out into the entry gallery. He stopped and looked at her. She attempted a smile of encouragement, but it gave her face a look of terrible weariness. In a low but firm voice, she said: "Sherman, be brave. Remember who you are." She opened her mouth, as if she was about to say something more; but she didn't.

And that was it! That was the best she could do! I try to see more in you, Sherman, but all that's left is the sh.e.l.l, your dignity!

He nodded. He couldn't get a word out. He turned and went to the elevator.

Killian was standing under the marquee just outside the front door. He was wearing a chalk-striped gray suit, brown suede shoes, a brown fedora. (How dare he be so debonair on the day of my doom?) Park Avenue was an ashy gray. The sky was dark. It looked as if it was about to rain...Sherman shook hands with Killian, then moved down the sidewalk about twenty feet, to be out of earshot of the doorman.