“I’m sure they will,” he said.

“They’re wonderful. It’s good to have somebody you can put your trust in.”

“Yes, it is,” he said.

Kender came in and told him they were waiting to place him on the machine. They left the room together and in the corridor Longwood turned to the younger man. “She has a terrible faith in you. She believes that you are infallible.”

“That happens. It’s not a bad thing. It helps us,” Kender said.

“It’s unfortunate, of course, that I am aware of your limitations,” he said.

Kender nodded. “Yes, it is, Doctor,” he said.

Longwood lay down and let the nurse connect him to the machine. In a moment it began to splash mockingly. He lay back and closed his eyes. Gently scratching the itch, he began at the beginning and told God everything.

10: Rafael Meomartino

10

Rafael Meomartino

Meomartino got home that night as Huntley was saying goodnight to Brinkley. Liz was lying on the living room couch in a house dress, her shoes on the floor and her hair just slightly disarranged and her fatigue accentuating the faint lines around her eyes. She turned her head and offered her cheek to be kissed. “How was your day?”

“Terrible,” he said. “Where’s the boy?”

“In bed.”

“This early?”

“Don’t wake him. He’s worn himself out, and me, too.”

“Daddy?” Miguel called from his room.

He went in and sat on the bed. “How are you?”

“Good,” the boy said. He was afraid of the dark and they kept a lamp on the bureau with a small bulb burning.

“You can’t get to sleep?”

“No,” he said. When he took his hand out from under the covers Rafe saw it was dirty.

“Didn’t you have a bath?”

Miguel shook his head, and Rafe went into the bathroom and ran a warm tub and then carried the boy from his bed and undressed him and bathed him very gently. Ordinarily Miguel thrashed and splashed but now he was sleepy and he lay still. He was beginning to grow faster than his flesh could keep up. His hip-bones protruded and his legs and arms were thin.

“You are getting to be big,” Rafe said.

“Like you.”

Rafe nodded. He rubbed him down with a towel and dressed him in clean pajamas and carried him back to the bedroom.

“Make a tent,” Miguel asked.

He hesitated, weary and hungry.

“Please,” the boy said.

So he went into his study and came back with an armload of books. He took a blanket from the bed and spread it across the space between the bed and the bureau, anchoring each corner of the blanket with four or five books. Then he snapped off the light and he and his son crawled into the tent. The acrylic carpet was softer than sod. The little boy snuggled up to him and gripped him with his arms.