And just like that, in the simplest act of imagination, anticipation, this house was his home again, and he began to fill at last with a longing for this, his present life: Annie, his two daughters, and Clay. Tonight he would share a bath with Annie, would sponge her back, peruse lightly the Braille of her spine, heft her breasts judiciously in his palms. Closing his eyes, he could almost feel her soap-slick skin. And yet it was difficult to evoke her distinctly. As invariably happened when he was away for a while, she had become a spectrum, her face and figure that of every Annie, from the tall slender girl he had once so earnestly examined for ticks, through the young mother grimacing in labor, to the woman she was now, much changed and much the same. All at once he was seized by such intense love for her he felt physically weak. In the bath tonight she will ask him about his trip, and she will notice his hesitation, the sensitivity of his eyes to hers, but will say nothing. They will struggle with this silence, suddenly awkward, like the two twelve-year-olds they have never ceased to be, unchanged from their first encounter; and, utterly changed, heading toward that kind of rough and difficult perfection of whatever they were, the two of them, together. They will become aware of the sounds of Gayle and Lulu through the walls, squabbling over Clay—Clay look! Clay listen!—of Clay’s silence joining his and Annie’s, familial, since it reached back just as far, through every generation, to that first thing that could not be spoken.

Tonight, sharing a bath with Annie, exulting in her nakedness and his, he will listen to his daughters’ voices and Clay’s silence. In this he has faith. Headlights sweep across the house behind him. The sun is gone. The old driveway gate squeaks. Hurrying downstairs he hides himself behind the coats on the rack. Car doors slam, releasing Gayle’s and Lulu’s voices in happy strife. Raj raises his arms; his hands become claws. As the key rasps rudely into the lock, his lips draw back to reveal a row of salivating fangs.

The door opens.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am grateful for the invaluable help and encouragement of Averill Curdy, Christian Wiman, Akhil Sharma, Peter Murr, Eileen Murr, Alan Cross, Judy Sternlight, Daniel Menaker, Susan Sandon, Justine Taylor, Caroline Knight, Richard Cable, Ellen Levine, Tony Deaton, Penelope Pelizzon, Nancy West, Craig Kluever, Sherod Santos, Lynne McMahon, Stuart Dybek, Arnie Johnston, Fred Leebron, Peter Stitt, and the Lannan Foundation.

A READER'S GUIDE

A CONVERSATION WITH NAEEM MURR

A CONVERSATION WITH NAEEM MURR