Birds exploded from the ledge, soaring skyward. Below, the city spread out in all directions. From here it appeared quiet, almost still. To the west, he saw the great barges on the Hudson, the cliffs of faraway New Jersey. Heaving, he set the basket down on the tar paper. The baby squirmed in the cold; his eyes blinked with wonder. Brodman trembled with love for him. His beautiful features were wholly unfamiliar, loyal to no one. A child still without measure, equal only to himself. Perhaps he would turn out not to resemble any of them.

They would already have discovered him missing below. Alarms would be ringing, the apartment in chaos. Brodman felt the wind knife through the silk shirt. He had no plan. If he had hoped for some guidance, there was none to be found here. The leaden sky had sealed the heavens up. Stooping with difficulty, he lifted the baby out of the basket. His tiny head flopped back, but Brodman caught it and cradled it tenderly in the crook of his arm. He rocked and swayed gently, just as his father had in the early morning, after he had wrapped the black straps around his arm and head. If he was weeping, he did not know it. He stroked the baby’s soft cheek with his finger. The boy’s gray eyes seemed to look on him with patience. But Brodman could not say what it was that he was meant to tell the child. Restored to life, he could no longer parse the infinite wisdom of the dead.

I Am Asleep but My Heart Is Awake

Asleep in my father’s apartment, I dream that someone is at the door. It’s him—he is three, or maybe four, years old. He’s crying; I don’t know why, only that he is bitterly disappointed. I try to distract him by showing him a picture book with beautiful illustrations, in colors far brighter than those one gets in life. He glances at the book, but carries on anyway. In his eyes I see that everything has already been decided. So instead I pick him up and carry him around on my hip. It isn’t easy, but that’s how it has to be, because he’s so upset, this tiny father-child.

The latch of the front door awakens me. I’ve been living here alone for more than a week. Now, lying still, I listen to the sound of footsteps entering, and a bag being set heavily on the floor. The footsteps move away, toward the small kitchen, and I hear the creak of the cabinet open and close. The sound of water rushing from the tap. Whoever it is knows his way, so there is no one it can be.

From the bedroom doorway I see the stranger’s broad, stooped back. It takes up half the tiny kitchen. He gulps down a glass of water, fills it again, drains that one, and a third. Then he rinses the glass and places it to dry, upside down, on the rack. He’s sweated through his white shirt. He unbuttons the sleeves and rolls them to the elbows. He splashes his face with water, removes the checked dishcloth from the peg, dries himself brusquely, and stops to press the towel into his eyes. From his back pocket he produces a small comb and runs it through his hair, smoothing it into place. When he turns, his face is not the face I expected, although there was no face I was expecting. This face is old and refined, with a long nose and high, flared nostrils. His eyes are hooded, but surprisingly light and nimble. He walks the few steps back into the living room, tosses his wallet on the table, and only then, looking up, does he notice me watching him from the doorway.