"I don't know."

"Did you eat breakfast? We'll eat a big lunch. I can't wait to see Cedar Bridge. You do still want me to come, don't you? You could take me back to the Bay if you have reser-vations suddenly. I mean, I don't blame you-it's okay." Her voice sputters out; she ducks her head.

"No, no, I'm glad you're coming. I asked you to come." Blank cards spinning through his universe. Dreams of nothing. Just living day to day without knowing anything-without thinking you know anything. Accepting not knowing any-thing. It's so enormous. You could get lost. The face on the belly. Someone's taken away my pacifier, Ned thinks. "I've just entered a foreign country," Ned says softly.

"No, it's just Fannin county. There's a place that makes incredible hamburgers-"

"Anne-"

She pulls her hair back into a wide tortoise-shell comb. He loves how curls escape down the nape of her neck.

"What's wrong, Neds?"

"Don't do that," he says sharply. Only Laura can call him Neds and she's dead. He remembers Laura. He must not forget her even though it hurts like a wound whose scab has been torn off too soon. The face on the belly, Laura's face, blemished, flushed with dread. And then another face, a child's face. And then another. Face after face, unknown faces, known faces. He didn't love her. He doesn't love them. He doesn't love. He can't love. It's too dangerous to love.

Especially when you know what will happen. Or even if you think you know.

"Okay." She spies Mr. Sun clipped to his sunvisor. "Hey, what's this for?" She grabs it and grins. "You don't need this-"

In frozen horror, Ned watches her roll down the window and toss it out into the rushing air. He hits the brakes and the car squeals to a spinning stop, throwing Anne against the dashboard. They've made violent contact with a concrete wall, crumpling the bumper. Anne's seatbelt had not been of much use, being improperly fastened. He stares at her. She gingerly touches her bleeding forehead. ' "You okay?""I'm okay," she whimpers, avoiding his eyes.

"You had no right to do that," he says. He opens his door and gets out to assess the damage and to retrieve Mr.

Sun.

Laura was like Anne, self-absorbed and presumptuous, al-ways putting her needs before his. She always expected him to read her cards, make him say that everything was going to be glorious, fabulous, wonderful. Well, life's not like that. It's hard, horrible, lonely, cruel.

He searches the ground like a bloodhound. He finds weeds, dirt, glass, beer cans, newspaper, condoms, and a bluejay's feather. His eyes burn from all the looking, but finally he finds the card caught haphazardly in a barbed wire fence. He disentangles it gently. How warm it feels in his hands. He tucks it into a pocket and turns back towards the car.

He has to make this woman understand he's not responsi-ble for her life nor is she responsible for his. The car door remains open, the tip of it gouging a hole in the ground. A tree spills golden leaves upon the hood of the car. The con-crete wall bears a huge crack in its gray facade. Surely his car didn't do that. He marvels at how lucky they were not to have been seriously hurt. His reckless driving should've drawn the attention of someone. He looks across his shoulder, ex-pecting a policeman and flashing red lights. The highway is empty.

"Anne?" He gets in the car and looks for her but she's not there, the front seat curiously vacant. Maybe she had to pee. He laughs. Pee-pee. He feels suddenly child-like and happy, breathlessly young. He hadn't realized how much the card meant to him. He pats his pocket lovingly. Means to him.

"Anne-sweetie-Anne?" He gets out, walks around the car, searching the landscape. A breeze showers more autumn leaves; he brushes a few from his hair. It's getting late. He'll get into the car and wait. She'll come back. He has to be patient.

The seat's still warm. He sits quietly. He turns the key in the ignition to make sure the engine's not dead. The motor hums. He'll listen to the radio. She'll come back very soon. The sun begins to set and Ned reaches up to move the visor. Mr. Sun smiles down at him. Neddy gapes in astonishment. He fumbles in his pocket for what he rescued from the fence. He pulls it out and stares at white cardboard.

Expect nothing.

Ned begins to cry.

Nothing.

ROOM SERVICE.

by Les Daniels

Geoffrey Darling needed a rest, as he would have been the first to tell you. He might not have been so quick to tell you that he only hoped a rest would be enough.

It really wasn't his fault. If his nerves were frayed, it was because he feared that soon his collars might be frayed as well. And why shouldn't he be afraid? Why shouldn't he be frayed? He was fifty-three years old, and he was down to his last half-million.

The way his stocks had been behaving, it had begun to look like he might last longer than his inheritance. This thought had been so unpleasant that it had summoned up its opposite: the idea that he might die with some of the family fortune still unspent. He was evidently doomed to be a pau-per or a corpse, and with this realization had come the rev-elation that the cosmos was conspiring against him.

If brokers could not be trusted then it followed, as taxes follow capital gains, that bankers were no better. And itwas in his bank, when he converted all his assets into a briefcase filled with cash, that Geoffrey Darling first noticed how un-pleasant people's faces really were. The looks he received were furtive, greedy, and suspicious, and sometimes worse than that. For just an instant he thought he saw something in the bank manager's features that simply should not have been there. Darling made a determined decision that he would never put what he had seen into words, but he had difficulty in keeping the picture out of his mind.

He would have been obliged to dismiss his household help even if their faces hadn't started acting funny too; the expense of their wages was enough to make them intolerable, and of course they menaced the briefcase by their very presence. Having the money at home proved less comforting than Dar-ling had hoped; now that he was safe from swindlers he be-gan to feel threatened by thieves.

He cut himself off from his few acquaintances without much sense of loss and sat alone in his house. Going out meant either abandoning his fortune or else carrying it through streets clogged with twisting forms and faces. In-stead he wandered through his empty rooms, often with the briefcase clutched in his hand. He thought of his past. He did not feed himself. He began to think that he would lose his reason.

Something had to be done.

His memory finally offered him a way out. Standing in his cheerless dining room, his mind drifting, he suddenly recalled a place he had not seen for almost half a century. He had been happy there one summer with his mother and his father, both long dead. He had been a boy.

The place he remembered was the SeaHarp Hotel, in Grey-stone Bay.

He was not surprised, somehow, to discover that the hotel still existed; he was not even surprised when he was able to book a room for that very night. He put down the phone and began to pack.

And so it was that Geoffrey Darling came to the SeaHarp Hotel. The bus trip would have been hell for a man of his background even at the best of times, but he hardly dared to drive when things were so likely to change in front of his eyes without a moment's notice. So he sat rigidly in a public conveyance, directly behind the driver, holding the briefcase in his lap, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Hours dragged by.

The driver, who half-believed that his passenger must be blind, announced their arrival with unnecessary heartiness, and even helped Darling to step down from the bus. Darling swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and opened his eyes.

He was saved. The breeze at his back had the nostalgic, heady bite of ocean air, and the view through the opening in the hotel's high stone wall beckoned him like a dream from a happy and secure boyhood. He ran up the six stone steps toward the broad expanse of perfectly trimmed lawn, inhaling the aroma of freshly cut grass. He stepped off the walk onto the springy turf and whirled around like the central figure of some arcane child's game, his outstretched arms swinging suitcase and briefcase, his eyes wide as the brightness of the bay spun past them. He stopped to stare at the SeaHarp, and he saw that it was good. In fact, it was perfect. Somewhere in the back of his mind he might have realized that the sight which gladdened his heart was surely the product of pains-taking restoration, yet the conviction remained that he had been transported into the world of nearly fifty years ago. The peaked and gabled whiteness of the old hotel, topped by countless chimneys and surrounded at its base by a cool, shaded porch, looked to him like the shrine at the end of a pilgrimage.

Not even the figures strolling on the lawn or relaxing on the porch furniture seemed threatening to him: they had the easy elegance that only wealth and leisure bring, an utter absence of vulgarity and avarice. He felt that he could empty out his briefcase and spread its green bounty on the endless stretches of green grass without the slightest apprehension, the money camouflaged not by its color but by the grace of people who would doubtless make their way among the bills as if they were no more than fallen leaves.

Still, it was best to be prudent.

He ambled in a blissful trance toward the building, passing a handsome woman in a flowered print who smiled at him pleasantly.

A bird was singing somewhere, and the sun on Darling's bald spot was just precisely warm enough. Four distinguished old gentlemen were playing cards on the porch, with four glasses of what must have been very distinguished old whiskey on the table in front of them. Despite their oc-cupation, each one of them looked up and nodded to him as he passed, acknowledging him as one of their own. A waiter hovering discreetly behind a potted plant bowed slightly, one eyebrow raised a millimeter in a silent offer of assistance.

"I know the way, thank you," said Geoffrey Darling.He found the entrance, the glass-panelled doors that he remembered, and paused in front of them for a moment, beaming with anticipation. Then he stepped inside, and his happiness in what greeted him there caused his joyful view of the SeaHarp's exterior to fade into insignificance.

Now he was truly home. He hurried through the foyer and turned right toward the huge and elegantly appointed lobby, the soles of his shoes gliding noiselessly over oriental carpets whose intricate patterns he swore he could remember. He recalled lying on them, beside his father's chair, and studying the designs with great delight. It might have been yesterday.

Of course it would not do for him to lie on the carpets now, or to roll on the grass, but there was no reason why he could not take his father's place in one of those deep, dully gleaming leather chairs, a glass in one hand and a fine cigar in the other. Those would be more pleasant burdens than the ones he carried now, ones which he could soon lay down with perfect safety. Every face that he saw here was as it should be. No unsuitable guests would be permitted at the SeaHarp Hotel. A blessed mantle of peace descended upon his shoulders as he made his way toward the registration desk. Even the woman who greeted him there, despite her harsh face and severe clothing, was clearly one of the better sort, reminding him somehow of his maiden aunt, Martha.

"My name is Darling," he said. "Geoffrey Darling."

"Oh, yes. Mr. Darling. Welcome back."

"Thank you," said Darling, pleased and then slightly puz-zled. "Did I mention when I called that I'd been here be-fore?"

"There's no need to mention it, Mr. Darling. The SeaHarp never forgets its friends."

Darling smiled for the first time in months. He actually felt himself blushing. "I haven't been here since I was a boy,"

he said. "With my parents. Coming back here now makes me feel as if I'm coming home."

"The SeaHarp is my home, too. It's been in our family since 1903. My name is Noreen Montgomery."

It never occurred to Geoffrey Darling that he was breaking precedent when he reached across the counter to shake the hand of someone who, to one way of thinking, was really no more than a desk clerk. He was no longer thinking that way.

"I've given you room 403," she said. "It overlooks the Bay."

Darling was catapulted back in time. He could not have remembered his old room number if his life had depended on it, but what he heard rang with undeniable truth. Room 403. His parents had been settled in more elaborate quarters on the second floor, but he remembered what a proud little fellow he had been, at the age of seven, to have a room of his own, with his own key. And he was proud again as Noreen Montgomery handed him the old-fashioned key with its sea-green tag. 403.

"I hope you'll be happy here again," she said.

"I'm sure I will be."

"Then I hope your stay will be a long one."

She punctuated her remark by rapping sharply on the small bell beside the stack of registration cards. Darling turned to gaze expansively at his fellow guests. He was delighted by their dignity and decorum. Their noses did not writhe into obscene configurations, their eyes did not slither from their sockets, their mouths did not stretch unspeakably wide. Of course not. He was safe at home. He did not even realize that he had left his briefcase on the carpet while shaking the hand of his hostess.

He did realize it, however, when a sea-green arm reached out and snatched the briefcase from the floor. Darling was too shocked to speak. He reeled, and then he realized that the arm belonged to the bellboy. He was sorely tempted to snatch the bag back anyway, but he didn't want to draw at-tention to himself, and he didn't want to embarrass his host-ess. Offering a sheepish grin in her direction, he surrendered his suitcase as well.

"Room 403, Harold," she said.

Still somewhat befuddled, Darling followed the bellboy, resplendent in his smart sea-green uniform with its gold braid. The uniform might have been smart, and indistinguishable from the ones in Darling's memory, but its fit was notexactly perfect. The boy was just a little bit too fat. This was the first touch of the tawdry that Darling had observed in what was otherwise a perfect setting. It was hardly worth noticing, of course.

When they reached the elevators, the boy pushed a button and turned to face the man he served. The smile he offered was somewhat lopsided, and his face was faintly sunburned. There was a pimple on his forehead. Just an adolescent hoping to shed his puppy fat, thought Darling, but still not quite up to SeaHarp standards. The elevator door slid open.

Inside they were alone, and as the elevator lurched upward Darling kept his eyes on the ceiling. It was more pleasant than gazing on the unfortunate Harold, who, with his round pink face, pug nose, and straw-colored hair, really did look something like a pig. Not the boy's fault, of course, but he did nothing for the decor. The Montgomerys shouldn't have hired him. Then again, perhaps he was a poor relation. Dar-ling decided he could afford to be charitable. He would tip the boy a dollar.

Room 403 was just a few steps from the elevator, and the chubby bellboy scurried toward it, beating Darling by several lengths. He-had the suitcase under his left arm, and the brief-case in the same hand. With his right hand, he reached out.

"May I have your key, please, sir?" The cracked voice, evidently in the midst of changing, was no more pleasing than its owner's appearance. Darling dropped the key into the expectant, pudgy palm.

The lock clicked, and the sight of 403 as the door swung open was enough to dissipate Darling's vague feeling of dis-taste. The room was perfect, from the elegantly faded carpet to the swirled plaster of the ceiling. The furniture was far from new, but it was solid, substantial oak, each piece worth a furlong of formica. Darling would not have changed a thing, and he had a feeling that for forty-seven years the owners had been of the same opinion. It was his room. He was in heaven, and soon he would be there alone.

"Just put the bags anywhere," he said as he reached for his billfold. "That will be all, thank you."

He didn't like the feel of the damp, puffy hand when he put the dollar into it, but a moment later the boy was gone.

Darling locked the door. He also used the chain. Then he let out a sigh and sank into his overstuffed armchair.

He experienced only a few minutes of blissful thoughtlessness before something began to nag at him. The briefcase had been out of his hands, and out of his sight as well. Could that plump youth Harold, with his round, self-indulgent face, have played some sort of trick with the Darling fortune?

Darling sprang from his chair and dashed across the room. In an instant the briefcase was on the bed and he was fum-bling in his pocket for the key. He issued a whistling sigh when the top swung open to reveal undisturbed stacks of grayish green, but nonetheless he rifled through each separate one to make absolutely sure that the inner bills had not been replaced by clippings from The Greystone Bay Gazette. Ev-erything seemed to be in order. He manfully resisted the temptation to count the money. After all, he was here for a rest.

He stepped into the bathroom with its sturdy, old-fashioned fixtures and washed his face and hands in ice-cold water. He carefully unpacked his clothes, then decided that a celebra-tory drink was in order. He left the briefcase under the bed, carefully locked the door behind him, and tried the knob twice to make quite certain. Surely everything was as it should be?

Moments later in the first-floor bar, Darling perched on a padded stool and ordered a double Chivas regal with a splash of soda. He rarely drank, but when he did, he fancied himself a connoisseur. The smoky liquid soothed him, as did the clink of ice against his chilly glass. The bar was dark, and cool, and quiet. No obtrusive music played. Even the bar-tender was perfect, right down to his waxed and twirled mus-tache. They exchanged pleasant remarks about the weather, but the man was too well-trained to be intrusive. Two young fellows who virtually exuded cleverness came in and, over vodka gimlets, made what seemed to be informed observa-tions about the stock market. Darling eavesdropped unobtru-sively, his pulse quickening ever so slightly. While he wondered if he might have acquired a useful piece of inside information, he naturally began to think about his money, alone and unguarded on the fourth floor. He signed his bill and sauntered toward the elevators, determined to display no panic, but he broke into an ungainly run when he saw the door of one car sliding shut in front of him. He managed to thrust an arm into the opening, and triumphantly got aboard.

The only other passenger was the bellboy, Harold. It hardly seemed possible, but in less than an hour the creature's face seemed even pinker, and had definitely sprouted another pim-ple. The bellboy, whose hands were empty, stared straight ahead as if he were alone. Darling found this behavior sus-picious. Might this porcine peasant have been on his way to 403? It was certainly possible. The fact that he got off on the third floor did nothing to alleviate Darling's anxiety, for it was just what a criminal under observation might be expected to do. In fact, it was as good as aconfession.

Darling dashed from the elevator toward his door and fum-bled for his key. He continued to fumble. In a state of mount-ing hysteria, he went through all his pockets twice. His key was gone. Somehow, in the elevator, the bellboy must have picked his pocket.

Darling moaned, and then recalled an incident downstairs when the bartender had asked to see his key, a commonplace enough occurrence when a hotel guest sought to sign for ser-vices. Incredibly, Darling had left his room key on the bar.

He couldn't wait for the elevators. Instead, he hurried down the stairs, all three flights, then staggered across the foyer to arrive, puffing and palpitating, at the precise spot where he had sat only a short time before.

"My key," he gasped. "What have you done with my key?"

The mustached bartender looked at him and smiled. He held the precious key up, but Darling hardly noticed it.

In-stead, he was staring in horror at the ends of the fellow's mustache, which were twisting and twirling into knots that resembled nothing so much as the tails of pigs. The barten-der's cheeks were swelling into ham-like buttocks when Dar-ling snatched for his key and turned away shuddering.

He stumbled back up the three flights of stairs, his head throbbing. He would not stop to consider what he had seen until he had reached the security of 403. He swayed, wheez-ing, on the fourth-floor landing, and as he started toward his door he caught a glimpse of something sea-green disappear-ing around the corner of the corridor. He paused for a mo-ment, then set out in hot pursuit, but when he stumbled into the next section of hallway he found it empty. He heard an elevator door open and close, ran for the noise, but was too late. He rushed twice around the entire length of the floor's square of corridors, and then collapsed against his own door, the key still held in his cramped fist. He turned it in the lock and all but fell into his sanctuary, crawling across the carpet and feeling desperately under his bed.

The money was still there. This time, he counted all of it. Somehow the ritual soothed him, especially when he discov-ered that he had not lost a cent.

He locked and chained his door and took a cold shower with the bathroom door locked too, the briefcase resting on the toilet top. Then he lay down naked on the bed, the money right beside him. He cuddled the leather case like a pillow.

Nobody could blame him for being upset when he was locked out of his own room. It was only natural. And it was only natural (well, almost) that the bartender's face had changed. It had only happened for a second; in fact, it prob-ably hadn't happened at all. Just imagination. And somehow Darling knew that it was all the fault of that damned bellboy.

He dozed fitfully.

When he opened his eyes the room was dark, and for an instant he had no idea where he might be, but when he re-alized he occupied Room 403 of the SeaHarp Hotel he was content. He was also very hungry, and a little ashamed of himself for making such a fuss about his own forgetfulness. It was after nine. He dressed himself (just like a big boy), and to make a point he left the briefcase on top of the bed when he went downstairs for a late supper. But he did lock the door. After all.

The huge dining room had emptied out by this late hour, and Darling dined alone, accompanied only by the one waiter who was still on duty. Was there just a trace of resentment on the waiter's face at being called back to work when he might otherwise have gone home early? Surely not. Not on his face.

Darling dined on an elegant filet of sole stuffed with crab-meat, and he drank two glasses of the white wine his waiter recommended. He went without dessert, partly out of sym-pathy with the patient waiter, and partly because he wanted to get back to the room. He paid the check in cash so that he could keep his key in his pocket.

Room 403 was apparently untouched, but Darling counted the money again anyway, and when things didn't come out right he counted it again to reassure himself. Twice was enough. Enough was enough. He wished he had something else to do. There was no television in the room, and he hadn't thought to bring something to read. To alleviate his boredom he read through the notices and pamphlets by the telephone, discovering in the process that he still had fifteen minutes before room service closed down for the night. He didn't feel sleepy and he didn't want to stay up all night counting, so he called room service and ordered a double scotch and soda. After hanging up he realized that he hadn't asked for any special brand, but he decided it didn't really matter.He put the briefcase under the bed and sat staring at the wall until he heard a knock. He opened the door and saw Harold.

"Just leave it here let me sign for it here's a dollar good night," rattled Darling, keeping his head down as he grabbed the tray and wrote his name in one jittery gesture. This time he was careful not to let his hand touch the bellboy's while the tip was exchanged.

Darling shut the door. He locked and chained it. He heard a noise from out in the corridor that might have been a cough or a sneeze or even a laugh, but in truth was none of these. It was a grunt.

And even in the dim light of the hallway, even with the brief glimpse Darling had allowed himself, there could be no doubt that the bellboy's turned-up nose had transformed itself into the hideous pink snout of a full-grown hog.

Darling downed the drink in one long gulp and almost choked, but the scotch did not relax him. He counted out the five hundred thousand dollars once and then again before his eyes grew so blurry that he had to close them.

When he slept, he dreamed.

He dreamed of Harold, Harold with a snout and blue bib overalls, Harold wading up to his ankles through an endless field of mud, Harold approaching a crudely constructed pen and slopping his brother hogs with hundred dollar bills, Har-old ripping off his clothes and crawling naked through the fence to join the feast.

Darling sat up with a start. He saw his little room filled with summer sunlight, and experienced such deep relief that his fears were forgotten almost at once. He had been dream-ing, nothing more. He leaned back against the pillows, and within a minute was aware of no emotion save a growing appetite. He reached for the phone and had almost punched the number for room service when suddenly his finger stopped short in mid-air. He had forgotten about the bellboy.

Darling considered this point carefully. He knew without a doubt that the loathsome Harold was the cause of his dis-tress, the one discordant note in the soothing symphony that the SeaHarp had promised him. He refused to be the wretched lad's prisoner, yet discretion was advisable for his own sanity's sake. Surely, though, an employee who had worked from afternoon to midnight would have the morning off? He might even have the entire day off! Darling decided to take a chance. He picked up the phone again and ordered soft-boiled eggs, sausages, and whole wheat toast. He also requested a copy of the local paper, which he learned to his dismay was the only reading matter in the entire hotel. Still, it was better than nothing. There was a bookshop nearby, room service said, but Darling didn't think he would be ready to leave the hotel for some time.