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like climbing the same three stairs over and over. We started making up songs that had no choruses, just one
cursed, merciless verse after verse, complaint like a flipping knife wandering around, debating, resting no place
at all. In line after line, we tried to compose meaningful phrases with twinned endings:sinister to rhyme with
minister, cubic with pubic, flatbread with flatbed, bearable reason with terrible treason, lucky with
Kentucky’well, the songs angrily made no sense. We took turns, each of our verses sounding like the rhymes of
stalkers bleakly drunk with love, a little hope like dust beneath our nails, from where we clawed, though all was
flawed, still,cheap warhammer online gold, now, our lives were shorn of plot, cuz baby you were all I got, waiting out here in the parking lot,
beneath the stars, outside of bars, there I am, baby, there, there, idling in the fescue, waiting for your rescue, but
you’re nowhere, why don’t you care that love is rare’ my love is rare!’I'm going to drive to see ‘ what you think
about me.
We reached a point at which it was a good thing there was no chorus.
One night we got dressed in bag-lady clothes, got a shopping cart filled with beer, and went down by the railroad
tracks just to howl like wolves. This was late-stage Sufism, mid to late.
‘When we make our CD?’ said Murph as we trudged back home, ‘we’ll put a razor blade right inside each and
every one.’
‘And those little bottles of gin,’ I added. ‘And a pistol.’
‘You’re great,’ said Murph, putting her arm around me.
‘Yeah, well, I feel like I’m headed for a future where I’m just every guy’s sister,’ I bleated. ‘I think the fact that I
readThe Rules in Mandarin didn’t help any.’
Murph smiled, but what she said next was unsettling. She put her hands tenderly to my face and said, ‘Look at
you! You’re nobody’s sister.’
Outside in the flowerbeds the yellow irises had unfurled in the sun with their lolling nectarine-pit tongues. There
was a kind of ticking, humming all around, as if every living thing were contemplating bursting.
‘I’m wondering why Emmie has been singing this particular song,’ said Sarah,world of warcraft gold, pointedly, in the kitchen. She had
her chef’s hat on, the one that wasn’t a conventional toque but a brimless canvas cap.
‘A song?’
?’Prairie Pete, he got cold feet?”
‘Oh, yeah,’ I said. ‘I made that up.’
‘That’s OK,2moons dil,’ she said, as if I needed forgiving, which I could see I might.
‘I’ve also been singing regular standards with her,’ I added hopefully.
‘Yes,’ she said. ?’I Been Working on the Railroad.’ I’ve heard her sing that. There’s just two things I’m worried
about with that: the grammar and the use of slave labor.’
I wasn’t sure I was hearing things correctly. Her sense of humor was still not always explicit or transparent or of
a finely honed rhythm,warhammer online power leveling, and it sometimes left me not in the same room with it but standing in the hall. The words
‘You’re serious?’ flew out of my mouth.
‘Kind of.’ She looked right through me. ‘I’m not sure.’ And then she went upstairs, as if to go figure it out. When
she came back down she added, ‘Correct subject-verb agreement is best when children are learning language, so
be careful what you sing. It’s an issue when raising kids of color. A simple grammatical matter can hold them

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what a boy’s love could do in a poem or a song. ‘Driftless Dan, he had no plan / Prairie Pete, he got cold feet /
Great Lake Jake was hard to take ?’ And so we would give back our own grieving songs of sorrow at love’s
mystifying impersonations. We even had a song called ‘Mystifying Impersonation.’ Also a sad, slow one titled
‘Why Don’t the Train Stop Here?’ which Murph thought was too country; even when I changed the don’t to
won’t,buy 2moons dil, she found it unfocused, with its verse about a church turned into condos, though I liked that part best. ‘It’s
like ‘They paved paradise and put up a parking lot,?’ I protested.
‘It’s not,’ she said. ‘Believe me. It’s not.’ She knew how to speak without gentleness or malice, either one,wow power leveling, and
preferred my song ‘Everyone Is You’in Your Dreams,’ based on something someone told me once about dreams,wow power leveling,
but also a defiant anthem to rally us against the narcissism of the betraying lover! Oh, yeah: impotent vengeance,buy uo gold,
baby, sing your song! What could be better than words that worked every which way’ Who cared if the train
stopped here or not’ I would lay in the rhythm with my electric bass and she would throw herself into that
xylophone with ecstasy and pain, a nearby cigarette perched on a saucer, sending out its smoke like the tiny
campfire of two tiny prisoner squaws. Who knew she could play’
‘It’s really just a toy,’ she said. ‘Anyone can.’
‘That’s not really true,’ I said, unconvinced and impressed. Murph’s hands and arms moved up and down the
keyboard with the undulating movements of a squirrel’sine and cosine interlocking. She would then suddenly
stop and point at me with her right mallet, indicating that it was time for my solo, and I would let it rip’or try.
Murph liked our collaborations better than such lone efforts by me as ‘Dog-Doo Done Up as Chocolates for My
Brother,’ and we seemed best on the rocking ones, like ‘Summer Evening Lunch Meat,’ a song we had written,
combining the most beautiful phrase in English with the ugliest, and therefore summing up our thoughts on love.
‘Summer evening’ was what God had provided. ‘Lunch meat’ was the hideous human body itself. When I lay the
rhythm in with my bass, when I did it right, Murph could take over with the xylophone and it sounded great.
Well, maybe not great. A little stupid, but sweet. ‘Let your bass-face shine!’ she shouted. Probably my features
were contorted in concentration and transport. In between the more rollicking stuff, in useful weariness, we
found ourselves sailing even on our waltzy ballads:
Did you take off for Heaven
and leave me behind’
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Darlin’, I’d join you
if you didn’t mind.
I’d climb up that staircase
past lions and bears,
but it’s locked
at the foot of the stairs.

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Are you in paradise
with someone who cares’
Oh, throw down the key to the stairs.
One can see shining steps
and think love is enough,
Then sit at the bottom and wait.
The climb up to sweetness needs more than my love:
Darlin’, please just open the gate ‘
Can someone just open the gate’
‘I want to write something, too,buy wow gold,’ said Murph one evening,cheap ultima online gold, and because it was night, and because we’d had two
beers apiece, she grabbed my bass and picked awkwardly away at a new song, written right there from scratch,
from a four-stringed see-through, each of us making up a line and the other one supplying the next line, and so
on.
Why did I let you make off with my head’
Now when I go out I pretend that you’re dead.
But if I glimpse you,
don’t know what I’ll do,buy warhammer online gold,
’cause I’ve never been as crazy
’bout someone as crazy as you.
Madness is sadness’
I loved you the most.
Now my future’s the house
for your lunatic ghost.
Why are the leaves still bright green
and the sky so damn blue’
Can’t they see I’m just crazy
’bout someone as crazy as you’
She wanted to rhyme ‘don’t abhor us, that would bore us, just adore us’ with?’Which is it?’ she asked. ‘Is
itclitoris or cli toris?’
I didn’t know. Why didn’t I know’ ‘It may depend on which you have,’ I said.
To say all this made us laugh our heads off does not begin to express its consolations. Soon every night I’d get
out my electric and we’d do every tune we knew how in easy keys of G-minor and E-minor,warhammer online power leveling, with riffs that were
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returned, which if it had been earlier would have been a slight bummer as I had recently been using her stuff,cheap warhammer gold,
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her mister’a ‘handsome mister,’ I used to call it’which lightly sprayed mineral water on your face. But as
brokenhearted as I felt now, I was using nothing, just letting static electricity streak my hair across my teeth! I
had let my face crumble to sand. And then I just walked in one afternoon and there she was, sitting on the couch.
She’d arrived the same day as the xylophone and had herself just wheeled it in off the porch.
‘This is cool,’ she said, pointing at it.
‘Hi!’ I exclaimed. I dropped my books and hugged her. I was so happy to see her.
‘Yes.’ She smiled.
‘Are you’ High?’
‘As a kite?’
‘As the Hubble!’ She looked tired. ‘I feel like a veteran.’
‘Of highness?’
‘Of what, then’ Hineyness?’ Ritual ribaldry was part of the Muwallahin Sufic way,cheap wow gold, if I remembered correctly.
‘A veteran of the gender wars.’
‘Yeah, well, me, too. But I’m afraid those were never declared.’
‘Fucking do-nothing Congress! And we never got a parade or anything!’
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‘We’ve got marching bands,’ I said, pointing in the direction of the stadium.
‘That’s not a parade,’ she said.
‘It’s a quasi parade.’
She and her boyfriend had also broken up. ‘He put me in the freezer,’ she cried, ‘and didn’t even have the
decency to chop me up first!’ And so together we stayed in our apartment, smoking cigarettes and making up
tunes for our grief. ‘He played me like a yard sale lute! If he calls here,cheap uo gold, give him the tone, man.’
But he never did.
‘Do you realize,’ I said, ‘that when women have orgasms scans show large parts of their brains go completely
absent on the screen?’
‘Yes, well, that corresponds with my anecdotal research in the field.’
‘Mine, too.’
I would get out my bass, though the strap was always slipping?’Wait, let me put this strap on,’ I invariably said,
and Murph would cry,buy ultima online gold, ‘Hoo-hee!’ There wasn’t an innuendo anywhere she couldn’t be the first to locate and
illumine with her hoots.
We played all the things I’d recently made up. Though in real life a boy’s love was a meager thing, we liked

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The interesting thing about a wound in the foot was that the pressure of just standing on it, not babying it,
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death. I got out of the bath, wrapped myself in a towel, and then spun and spun, the towel falling away, my wet
hair whipping droplets through the room, and I kept whirling until I felt neither death nor life but a kind of
dizzying transport, which I was pretty sure wasn’t Sufism, or the radiant depths of my soul lifting from
bottomland to lovely storm: it was more like low blood pressure combined with PE’something I’d experienced a
lot as a child’a slight separation from the body, to serve as a reminder of what you were.
V
The clocks were wound forward an hour, and light flew down early and persisted into evening. My sleep was
shallow, and the nights were long and full of chiding conversation from people who seemed actually to be in the
room. But when I awoke there was no one. The apartment was muggy. The prairie, increasingly, I had noticed,
could not hang on to spring. It was as if there were not enough branches to grip it, hills to hold it’it could get
little traction, really, and the humid heat of summer slid right in. Soon the chiding conversation of hovering
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I had not mopped or swept the floors in months. I had used paper towels when there was a spill and hoped
that eventually the entire apartment floor would get wiped up this way. This method of cleaning the floor, in
patches, I imagined was like writing a poem every day until you eventually said everything about the human
condition there was to be said. But it didn’t really work that way, even in poetry: grimy corners remained while
certain floorboards got burnished to a slippery hellish gleam. Sometimes, when out of paper towels, I would use
one of the wipes I often packed in my backpack for Mary-Emma, and I would start with the counters and work
down: it seemed I could clean almost an entire room with just one’that was the sort of delusional housekeeping I
was becoming a devotee of.
Not one person asked me about Reynaldo, which made me realize just how private and isolated our affair had
been. Temporary and vanished. LikeBrigadoon with headscarves. My own emotions felt a disgrace. There was
apparently no indication left of me in his apartment’except the blood’and no one came knocking on my door. I
felt as blue as the lips of a fish, which was really just a line from a song I had going through my head. ‘The grass
don’t care / the wind is free / the prairie’once a sea’don’t sing no song for me.’ Bad grammar was totemic for
bass player grief.
What I really felt was this: chopped down like a tree, a new feeling, and I was realizing that all new feelings
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Sometimes I would awake too early in my bed and would feel my foot flap beneath the sheets, and I wouldn’t
know at first that it was mine. I felt only the movement of the cool sheet, and it felt like someone else was there,
in the bed with me, but I would quickly turn to see there was no one; it was always just me. At night before I fell
asleep I was not above staring at the phone.Are you there’ Yes. Are you falling asleep’ Not really. How many
fingers am I holding up’
In reality, no one asked me any questions whatsoever. No one said a word, except Sarah.
‘Did you see in the papers the story about this student who disappeared’ They found blood in his apartment but
they don’t know whose.’
‘Really,’ I said.
‘This wasn’t the guy who was taking pictures of Emmie, was it’ Or a friend of his?’
‘Not that I know of.’

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‘You see, that’s the problem:Not that I know of. There’s room for possibility.’
Her look at me was a darting thing. I just stared at her without seeing all that much, and I must have looked crazy
with unhappiness, because she then came up to me and smoothed my sweater sleeve and petted my arm. ‘I’m
sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why I’m going on like this.’
‘It’s OK,12sky2 gold,’ I said. It was quasi OK.
She returned to her theme menus. Invasive Species Night: the mustard-vine gnocchi; the steamed zebra mussels;
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burdock. Napkins of human hair! Well, that I just invented,12sky gold, piping up to amuse her, but she said, ‘Hmm. Yum.’
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claimed’if it was tasty and grew popular, people would save it?’but I wasn’t paying complete attention. The
general idea was that food always survived. I wondered.
‘I’m off to the Mill!’ Sarah would shout up the stairs. I could see the edge of her white jacket.
‘Ciao, Mama!’ Mary-Emma would shout down. She was saying so many words these days. ‘I feepy,’ she said
when she wanted to go to bed. She loved to watch old Esther Williams movies, which I brought her from the
university library, but they either revved her up or wore her out.
‘OK. Let’s go.’
‘I die,’ she said.
‘Well, someday. But not for a very long time.’
‘I die into the pool!’ And she took a flying leap onto her new futon, which Sarah had just bought to transition her
out of the crib.
Twice, back in my apartment, the phone rang, and when I went to answer it there was just all this terrible noise:
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bathroom with him. Some bathroom somewhere. Probably it was flushing noises I was hearing. Or maybe he
was on the other side of the world in a hot zone and his phone was trying to blow up something’it wasn’t called a
cell phone for nothing’and the secret blow-up code had instead misdialed and reached romantic interference: me.
I began to miss Murph. All I needed was her company, a sense of her presence again. Every day I felt that if
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And then astonishingly, she did. As if I’d wished it on a lucky penny: at this perfect time for me, Murph

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‘One must listen to God.’
‘Well, God should speak up. He mumbles.’
‘He has made us his messengers.’
‘How nice for him that he has his own staff and some out-of-town offices.’
‘We are his sheep?’
‘I didn’t mean that kind of staff.’
?’as well as his wolves.’
‘That sounds really, really complicated.’
‘Mankind is the source of all suffering.’
‘And the source of all God.’ I had crossed a line. ‘But as I said, the creation is often greater than what created it.’
Hubris or intelligent design’
He was silent, with a smile that wasn’t a smile. I found myself falling toward him, as if the rush of feeling tearing
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through me could magically be made into useful affection: perhaps if I tried to kiss him’but he pulled away. And
then slowly I got up, stepped back, one careful step at a time as he spoke. My crabapple branch had fallen near
‘There are a billion Muslims in the world,’ he said.
‘So, what’ I should be able to find another one?’
He fixed me with a powerful stare. He had that ability to summon up great concentration in his face and eyes.
‘There is that possibility.’ For a moment pity for us both glistened his eyes. ‘You can’t get blood from a stone,’
he said sadly. Referring, I supposed, to love. It was an expression he liked and had used before with me.
‘Yes, you can,tales of pirates gold,’ I said. I was always trying.
‘You can?’
‘One can. You can.’
‘How is that done?’
‘You go to a quarry.’
‘A quarry?’
‘Yeah,chronicles of spellborn gold, if you go to a quarry there is always some body that’s been dumped there.’
He laughed.
‘The Koran doesn’t prohibit you from laughing at gruesome humor?’ I would mock him a little’why not’
‘No,’ he said.
‘In every book there’s a lot of white spaces?’
‘Silences ?’
‘So who knows what’s going on,chronicles of spellborn gold, really, between the lines’ All those meaningful silences!’
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‘A Jew?’
‘Yes.’ This pronouncing voice did not sound like him, and he could see that I could hear that and seemed to give
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‘That means you aren’t going to tell me anything more, are you.’ I began to twist the bottom hem of my T-shirt
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grow it.’
‘How about if I first just find out who you are.’ I had been the minibar’and not the minbar’in this temporary
room of lodging. It was BYOB and I had brought the beer. ‘You are a haddi: some sort of jihadist.’
‘It is not the jihad that is the wrong thing. It is the wrong things that are the wrong things.’
‘Thank you, holy warrior, for the Islamofascist lecture.’
‘As Muhammad said, we do not know God as we should.’
‘And whose fault is that’ That’s not yours or mine! Maybe God has not stepped forward enough. Maybe God has
not done a sufficient job of meet-and-greet.’
I suddenly felt like an old Indian chief, one who sees that the world has changed irrevocably, and that the
younger generation would never know the old one, even the strongest, slumped on their horses at the end of
some trail. But if Reynaldo could feel the uncertainty of his own path, perhaps we could feel our despair
together. Despite everything, I had not thought of him as irretrievably religious. He would not eat a bratwurst,star wars galaxies credits,
but who could blame him’ The hot ones snapped with fat when you bit in. The cold ones were death itself ‘
‘I didn’t know you had all this blasphemy in you,’ he said. Was that a smile’
‘Yeah, well, sometimes the creation exceeds the creator. You know’ A computer can beat a chess champion, a
son can outsmart a father.’ I would not get into Frankenstein. ‘Maybe the Bible, with its vain, wailing God, is
telling us that the creation, too, is more divine than the Creator. Look at that! I’ve said that and not been smote!’
‘Sometimes these things take time,’ he said.
‘The smoting?’
‘Sure. Everything.’
‘Great.’ And then I added, ‘How about a kinder, gentler jihad?’

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‘I’m moving to London,cheap rs money,’ he said. ‘I’ve had the xylophone sent to your apartment. It should show up there in a
few days. Mary-Emma can play it there. And you, too, of course.’
Was the Jack London poster a clue’ A code’ Everything had grown strange. Things between us were dissolving
like an ice cube in a glass: the smaller it got, the faster it disappeared. Thus would the whole world end, I’d been
told.
‘I’m not part of a cell,’ he said.
‘That never crossed my mind.’ Though now it did. He had accepted some assignment. That must have been it.
There was some manipulative mullah in his life’rumors abounded of quiet recruitment everywhere, though these
were whispered and sometimes whispered as jokes. ‘Why London?’
‘The English are simultaneously critical and stiffly uncomplaining’a stage Americans bypassed altogether,
having gone from a dullard’s stoicism to a neurotic’s whining in less than half a century.’
‘That is such a bullshit answer.’
‘I’m part of an Islamic charity for Afghan children. That is all. They think I’m part of a cell. I’m not. If anyone
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There was no room in this conversation for ‘What about us?’ The conversational space had suddenly filled with
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‘You are Brazilian. What kind of cell would you be part of’ A bikini wax cell?’ I had once found a copy of a
lingerie catalog in his pile of newspapers. When I picked it up and looked closely, the address label bore my own
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‘I’m not Brazilian.’
‘You’re not?’ Of course he wasn’t. Why hadn’t I figured that out’ Where were the bossa novas’ Why did he not
know a single phrase of ‘The Girl from Ipanema?’
‘About that I lied.’
‘Why’ Where are you from?’ Perhaps he would turn out to know the words to ‘Kashmiri Love Song,’ my
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My heart tapped against my chest like fingers on a tabletop.
‘Hoboken, New Jersey.’
‘Hoboken’ Like Frank Sinatra?’
He snickered a little, a look of hard pedantry in his eyes. ‘Even the very first revolution in America was
conducted from New Jersey.’
‘Gambling and disease. Right from the start. Are we doing American history?’ I looked at his familiar and
beautiful face. He was leaving me as mysteriously as he had first appeared. An agony. The exit like the