I boarded the train and for an hour stared out of a black window at inscrutable, hurrying lights and at my own flickering, murky reflection. It was night; my awkward call at the Guggenheim had delayed my escape until three. New York is always sticky to get away from, like a party where something wonderful may happen the minute after you leave. In the grand and largely empty Haverhill railroad station, there were several pay telephones, but none of them worked. When I made the call from a drugstore a block away, my wife was incredulous. “Haverhill! Sweetie, who ever told you to go there?”

It was after nine o’clock and I was groggy and irritable with sitting and swaying in overheated railroad cars. I had brought to read only the Everyman’s edition entitled The Travels of Mungo Park, and the jiggling small print had hurt my eyes. “Nobody did. It was my own idea. I thought you’d like it; I thought it showed real powers of acclimation.” She was a New England native; I was from Maryland. Moving here had been in part an attempt to make her happier.

“Pookie,” she said, “Haverhill’s twenty miles away, it’s the end of the world. I can’t possibly come get you—Annie’s had a fever both days you’ve been gone and I don’t want to get her out of bed and put her in the cold car. But don’t give up. Malcolm’s right here, he cooked us our dinner. Let me ask him. He probably wouldn’t mind, he’s up till all hours anyway, listening to music.” She covered the mouthpiece but I overheard her say, “Would you believe it?” and then a short length of laughter, wound of two strands, male and female.