8. DIXIE MAGAZINE IS on the coffee table next to the fireplace, which bristles with wrought-iron hooks and pots.

Van Dorn is on the cover.

I pick it up and hold it in the sunlight. Under Van Dorn's picture is a list of captions: RENAISSANCE MAN.

NEW OWNER AND RESTORER OF BELLE AME.

NUCLEAR WIZARD.

MITSY'S TROUBLESHOOTER

INTERNATIONAL BRIDGE CHAMPION.

OLYMPIC SOCCER COACH AND EDUCATOR.

Van Dorn is wearing a yellow safety helmet and holding rolled-up blueprints in one hand and socking the end of the roll with the other. He's standing in front of the house at Belle Ame and gazing at the great cooling tower of Mitsy. He's a bit thick in the neck, but quite handsome, handsomer in the picture than in fact he is. His expression as he looks at the cooling tower is condescending, if not contemptuous. In his helmet he reminds me of a German officer standing in the open hatch of a tank and looking down at the Maginot Line.

There's a noise above me, a breath of air? I look up.

Ellen comes whirling down the staircase. She's wearing her Trinidad outfit, a bright orange-and-black print wound around her like a sari. It flares as she descends, showing her strong bare brown legs. She's gained weight. The muscle on her shin curves out like a dancer's. In her hair she's woven a bit of the same cloth in a bright corona of color.

She's effusive, gives me a hug and a kiss, as if she hadn't seen me since Trinidad. Maybe she was too sleepy to remember me last night.

"Good God," she says, frowning and backing off, eyeing me up and down in her old canny Presbyterian style. "Where did you get that suit? Throw it away. Burn it."

Her skin is as clear as ever, almost translucent, transmitting a peach glow of health, her skin faintly crimsoned, like flesh over light. She's put on weight but not too much. Her tightly wrapped Trinidad sari becomes her.

An idea occurs to me.

"You're looking extremely well."

"Well, thank you."

"The tan is very becoming. Moreover-"

"It ought to be. I worked on it. I usually peel."

"Do you remember how nice it used to be in the afternoon?"

"What? Oh, for heaven's sake."

"What do you say if we go in there for a while?" I nod to the downstairs bedroom.

"That's the best proposal I've had all week!" she says, too heartily.

"Well?"

"Dummy, we've got to go to the awards dinner in thirty minutes."

"This will only take fifteen."

"Oh, for-! That's Chandra's bedroom now."

"Chandra won't mind. Do you remember the Sears Best?" Sears Best was a king-size mattress on a big brass bedstead.

"What? Oh, I certainly do. And it certainly was!"

I look at her. She is both hearty and preoccupied. She taps her tooth.

"Do you remember standing at the sink and being approached from behind?"

"What? Oh." She blushes. For half a second I could swear she remembered love in the afternoon and was on the very point of heading for Sears Best. But she frowns, looks at her watch, makes her clucking sound. "Oh, God, I forgot. I have to call Sheri Comeaux about tonight. What-a-pain!"

"I don't think I can make it."

"Why the hell not?" Her fists are on her hips.

"I'm not much for school functions-" I begin.

"Well, hear this. You damn well better be. This happens to be important to Tommy and for his future. It just so happens that Tommy is getting an award for summer soccer, the award, and that he is Olympic material. It also just so happens that if Tommy and Margaret are going to Belle Ame Academy, an honor in itself, you had damn well better show some interest, because Van is already breaking the rules taking them this late."

And so on. Instead of letting me lay her properly on a kingsize bed, she picks a king-size argument. Van Dorn, it seems, has started up a private school at Belle Ame on the English model, with tutors, proctors, forms, and suchlike. Ellen has yanked Tommy and Margaret out of St. Michael's-it's possible because school has just started. It's all right with me, I've already agreed, but for some reason she wants to pick a religious argument. This is, in a sense, funny. It is as if I were still a Catholic and she a Presbyterian, when in fact I am only a Catholic in the remotest sense of the word-I haven't given religion two thoughts or been to Mass for years, except when Rinaldo said Mass on the Gulf Coast, and then I went because it was a chance to get out of the clink-and Ellen is now an Episcopalian. She's become one of those Southern Anglicans who dislike Catholics-Romans, she calls them-and love all things English.

I won't argue. She can send them to Eton if she likes. Mainly I'm glad to have her back. Very well, I'll go to the awards dinner. There's something else on my mind. But my acquiescence only makes her angrier.

"And not only that," she says, fists still on hips.

"Yes?" I say, thinking how nice it would be, what with all this anger, flushed face, flashing eyes, if-and in fact say as much. "It certainly would be nice if we could fight it out in there."

"And not only that," she repeats.

"Yes?"

"For Tommy's sake, you better remember you promised to take Van fishing."

"I remember," I say gloomily.

"All right." Again she looks me up and down, me in my Bruno Hauptmann suit. "And get dressed, for heaven's sake. And keep in mind about Van."

What I keep in mind is her voluptuousness and distractedness. It is odd. At the height of her anger she's both voluptuous and distracted, preoccupied by something. Her eyes do not quite focus on me.

9. THE AWARDS BANQUET is shorter and less painful than I had feared. I manage not to drink. What is surprising is that Ellen does-does drink-something she seldom did, and not merely drink but in the end gets so drunk I have to take her home. Sheri Comeaux explains why. Van Dorn let her down, did not invite her to the North Americans at Fresno.

John Van Dorn is doing a very graceful job emceeing the banquet and passing out trophies. He is talking about the summer soccer camp and plans for the soccer "program" during the academic year at Belle Ame. Afterward he passes out trophies. When he hands Tommy his trophy, a gold-colored statuette, he doesn't let go, so there are the two of them holding the trophy while Van Dorn speaks. Tommy is embarrassed. He doesn't know whether to keep holding on to the trophy or what to do with his eyes.

"I have one little suggestion for you moms and dads," says Van Dorn, who is not embarrassed. "What would you say to giving up your sons and daughters to this program for four years? That's all I ask. And what do I promise in return?" He pauses, looks at the moms and dads, looks at Tommy, speaks in a soft voice. "What I promise is a good shot at the Junior Olympic gold for this team four years from now in Olympia, Greece, where the original Olympics were held."

Applause, cheering. From Tommy only relief when Van Dorn lets go of the trophy and he can sit down.

Ellen, surprisingly, is already drinking a lot. Ordinarily she'd be the proud mom, but she polishes off her third Absolut, smiles and applauds, and goes to the ladies' room.

"Listen, Tom," says Sheri Comeaux, pulling me close. We're sitting at a table for four in the rear of the Camellia Room of the Holiday Inn. Bob Comeaux is silent and distant, as if we had had no dealings this morning. Their son Ricky also got a trophy, but a smaller, silver-colored one. "I have to talk fast. Ellen just found out Van's not going to the North Americans and she's taking it hard. She had her heart set on it. They'd have won for sure."

Sheri's a good sort. "Welcome home, Tom," she had said earlier. "You have friends, you know-more than you know." Sheri was a New Orleans nurse when she married Bob Comeaux. She's not uptown New Orleans or Garden District, but she's not Irish Channel or Ninth Ward either. French-Irish-Italian, she'd have gone to school at Sacred Heart, not with the Mesdames of the Sacred Heart Academy on St. Charles Avenue but at Sacred Heart parochial school on Canal Street. She and Ellen both married doctors, both took up duplicate bridge at the same time, neither having to work-Sheri because Bob was a successful doctor, Ellen because she and Marva made a lot of money in real estate. Sheri has the fond, slightly dazed look of many doctors' wives.

"I better talk fast before she comes back," says Sheri.

"Okay, talk fast." Sheri is making me nervous because she's drinking too, hanging on my arm, talking a lot, mentioning names, and making a point of it as if she knew about Bob and Mickey LaFaye. But she always comes back to Ellen.

"That girl is loaded! With talent I mean. I mean, she is some kind of genius and doesn't even know it. Do you know what she did?"

"No."

"We were playing in this dinky little sectional over at Biloxi-this was before we met Van Dorn. It was good for nothing but black points of course. So there we were, two little bridge ladies with a bunch of other bridge ladies. It's about four women to one man, and what men. And here he comes-surprise, surprise-God knows what they paid him to make an appearance. We were playing women's pairs the first day and there he is, strolling around the tables watching the play. We were all nervous and giggling. I know you don't know anything about the strange world of duplicate bridge, but having John Van Dorn show up at a sectional tournament is like Ivan Lendl turning up at the local tennis club. I mean, we're talking world-class, Tom." She finishes her drink. Bob Comeaux, to my relief, has gotten up and is talking to Van Dorn in the aisle. He's listening intently to Van Dorn, looking down, arms folded, ear cocked. Van Dorn catches my eye, winks, makes a casting motion with his wrist. I nod.

"Yes, Sheri?"

"You got the picture? Us little bridge ladies trying to keep our minds on the game and him walking around, kibitzing. Got it?"

"Yes."

"So next day, it's mixed pairs. And we're resigned to anybody we draw. We're standing at the customers' desk to get our partners and wondering who we're going to end up with-you talk about dogs-I mean, you wouldn't believe who I got. But anyway. There were a few professionals hanging around as usual. You know, you can get a life master or a professional, but you have to pay-personally I think the system stinks-it's like a bunch of middle-aged ladies looking over the gigolos. But there we were, counting our little money to see if we can afford one of the L.M.s or professionals at least. Actually it's the best way to learn, but I think it's degrading. I look up and there he is. Oh, he's a charmer. He introduces himself to both of us as if we were the famous ones. 'You're Mrs. More, I believe, and you're Mrs. Comeaux?' I nearly drop my teeth, but you know Ellen, laid back and cool. 'Yes?' she says." Sheri mocks Ellen's coolness. "He bows, I swear I think he even clicked his heels like a Prussian general, you know? He's the perfect gentleman, but it's obvious it's not me he had in mind. Oh, he knew all about you too. 'I know your husband's work,' he says to Ellen. 'Magnificent!' Ellen still hasn't got the message. 'But I've also seen your work-oh, I can tell in about thirty seconds,' he tells Ellen. 'I saw you pull that Steknauer finesse not once but twice.' Then he turns to me as if Ellen's not there. 'Mrs. Comeaux,' he says, there's such a thing as card sense and there's such a thing as a sixth sense. This lady knows where the cards are. I don't know how she knows but she knows. I don't think she knows how she knows either. It is as if she had a little computer stored in her head.' Then he turns to Ellen and there's Ellen going, Ah-uh-ahem, and so forth. So he says to Ellen, 'Would you do me the honor of being my partner in mixed pairs today?' 'Well, ah uh,' goes Ellen. 'I don't believe I have the-ah-' And she's actually going through her purse. I give her a nudge: Dummy! So he says, with another bow, 'The fee is waived. The honor is mine.' Well, let me tell you, I have to give Ellen credit. That gal's got class. Without turning a hair she shrugs and says, 'Very well.' Very well, I'm thinking, Jesus. Of course, some of the old biddies were jealous, said he was interested in Ellen's money, but that's a lie. She's a natural-born bridge genius."

"Did they win?" I ask. I look at my watch. What is keeping Ellen?

"Win! They haven't lost since. And now they're not going to Fresno. I don't get it. Old charmer turns into old asshole. Right, Tom?" She's got another Tanqueray.

"Right. But why don't you go see if Ellen's-"

"Sure." Her son Ricky comes up and shows her his trophy. She gives him a hug and me a wink. "Wonderful, darling." After Ricky's gone, she says, "You want to know what those trophies look like?"

"What?"

"Like K.C. bowling trophies, right?"

"Right. Now-"

"You want to know something, Tom?"

"What?"

"You really screwed up, didn't you?"

"I suppose I did."

"But you know something?"

"What?"

"I always thought you were the best around here, the most honest and understanding-unlike some I could mention, namely Dr. Perfect here." And here in fact is Bob Comeaux, who pays no attention to her even though she hasn't lowered her voice. Instead, he leans past me, ear cocked with the same intensity, and speaks to the table: "I hope you've given some serious thought to our conversation this morning. Okay, Tom?" His hand rests heavily on my shoulder.

"Sure, Bob," I say, not sure what part of the conversation he means. Probably Father Smith. "Sheri-" I turn to her, but she's gone-to fetch Ellen, I hope.

Van Dorn, passing behind Bob Comeaux, makes a sign to me as if he did not want to talk to Bob. He holds up one hand open and a forefinger.

"Okay," I say. "Six o'clock."

Ellen comes back, seeming all right, and drinks two more Absoluts. She smiles and nods in her new unfocused way at nothing. She's getting somewhat dreamy but seems on the whole composed and pleasant.

10. ELLEN IS NOT so drunk that she cannot get up the spiral staircase. But it is well that I am behind her, because I can assist her without seeming to, moving up behind her and in step, knee behind her knee, hands up the rail and almost around her. I fear she might fall.

Our new bedroom is on the third floor across a tiny hall from the children's. Ellen bought two iron convent beds, now in high fashion, when the convent closed. What short narrow nuns. My feet stick out through the bars.

How to sleep with her? There's no spoon-nesting on these cots. And she's already flopped on one, dressed, filling it. She's not passed out or even drunk, but open-eyed, dreamy, placative, and still smiling in the same moony way.

Well then, turn out the light and- I turn out the light.

"Lights! "says Ellen.

I turn on the light. True, drink and dark can make you sick. I know. But she's smiling.

I have an idea. "I have an idea."

She waits, smiling.