The next door was the bathroom, and she went in there and washed all the makeup off her face and wet her hair. When she came out, Allan Siegal was at the foot of the stairs. Gerry was probably on top of Selma now, his pants down, his bare backside green in the glow of the TV screen.

She went down the stairs and faced Allan.

“I was sick. I’m sorry, but I think I should go home.”

He reached up and touched her hair. “You better wear a scarf,” he said.

“I will.”

“Golda told me what happened to your husband, Rachel. I’m sorry.”

She almost said, it’s all right, but she stopped herself in time.

“I don’t suppose you’ll let me take you home,” he said.

“I . . . I’d rather not,” she said. In this light, his hair was silvery gold.

“What are you afraid of?”

“Nothing!” she answered sharply. “Nothing at all,” and she fled.

New Year’s Day she walked in the yard, through the snow. Siegal was right, she was scared. But not of him, she thought. The worst that could happen between them was that they’d make love. Nothing scary there. Even if it was more, even if she fell in love with him or he with her, what was so terrible? She brushed the snow off her tulip tree and watched the tree branches rise, released of the weight. What scared her had nothing to do with Allan Siegal or sex. With what then? The clay. She looked up and saw Jacob at the sliding glass door.

Jacob . . . clay. Suddenly she remembered a color picture of a village street. Not in this country or time, because the street was cobbled and the houses had leaded glass windows, and the second stories hung over the street. There was a man on the street . . . a rabbi, like Jacob, dressed all in black and wearing a high rabbi’s­­­­ hat. Next to him fell a shadow of something. The shadow darkened the cobbles and came up the wall. Melting snow dripped on her bare head, but she stood still, concentrating, trying to remember. . . .

“Rachel . . .”

She tried to ignore the voice, but Jacob called her again and slid open the door.

“Telephone, Rachel. An Allan Siegal to talk to you.”

She gave up and went inside.

“Will you have dinner with me tomorrow?” Siegal asked when she got to the phone.

“Where?”

He laughed, “Will the place decide whether or not you go?”

“I have trouble getting into the city,” she said, then thought bitterly, My car is corrupt.

“Not the city. Centerreach. You can meet me at my office.”