—
THAT AFTERNOON, BEN drove out to the Wedge to ride some waves. Body surfing wasn’t medically approved, he was sure of that, but the cut around his eye was nearly healed and he needed to swim, needed to be submerged in the cold silence of the water. He listened to News Radio 1070 on the way down, a special report about the serial. The reporter interviewed people on the street, and they recounted their terror with an excitement that verged on pleasure. Their relief was so absolute, you thought nothing terrible could ever happen again. It was finished. No sensational trial, no dramatic testimony—just a three-month burst of violence that would soon become a fearful memory. But there would be more, Ben knew; there were always more. There were a lot of malformed people out there to fear. Some of them lived down the street, some of them right next door. They seemed like you, except for that ugly thing they tried to hide.
The swell was small, two to three feet, coming out of the north, and its insignificance kept the surfers away. Before the sun dove toward the horizon, Ben was alone swimming toward the break, the water glassy and clean, turning into the tiny peaks and riding quiet lefts toward the beach.
When he was finished, he called her from a pay phone at the beach. She had been smart enough to wait and let him make the call, and when he came up the drive just after sunset Natasha was sitting on the porch, waiting for him. She took his hand when he got to her, held it a moment, and then let go. He sat down next to her a few inches away, not sure where the lines of demarcation existed now in this part of his life. Puffs of black bulldozer exhaust rose above the ridge of Quail Hill. He could hear the clangs of the machines erasing the hard evidence of a past that would soon exist only in memory. Maybe he’d forget some of it, maybe it would always be there, but he was here now, in this present, and he needed to live in it.
She took him inside and dabbed the cut on his eye with alcohol. It burned and she blew on it to cool it down. Then she kissed him and he kissed her, his mouth willing, his body, too. She pulled his coat from his right and then left shoulder and ran her hands down the sides of his back, and he shuddered.
She smiled at him and guided him toward bed. Her fingers found the top button of his shirt and he lay there, still, as she worked at the next button and then the next. When she neared the final button, the familiar tension came into his body, a sort of haunting inside, and he softly squeezed her hand and pulled it away.
“There’s no one here,” she said. “It’s just you and me.”
He nodded and unhooked the last button then and let her pull him free of the shirt. He shook once and something caught in the back of his throat. She kissed him there, on the soft indentation of his neck, her hand working down his chest.
“Just you and me,” she said. “You and me.”
For Miriam, Nathaniel, and Adeline
Acknowledgments
Writing may be a solitary act, but no author finishes a book without a community of people who offer support, encouragement, honest criticism, patience, and sometimes stiff drinks.
I’m indebted to all my colleagues at Villanova University for their professional support, but also for their friendship. I’m particularly thankful to Evan Radcliffe, who could not have been a more caring and thoughtful department chair. Thanks to Joseph Lennon for his editorial insight, and for saying this to me one cold winter night over dinner: “You’ll get this book done, because you have to get it done.” To Jean Lutes for her friendship, her wise counsel, and her shared love of gin martinis. Gracias to my fellow Southern California expats who helped me keep one foot on the “best coast” while writing in the east: Lisa Sewell, Kamran Javadizadeh, and Alice Dailey.
All my gratitude goes out to my editor, Kate Medina, who waited all of the Obama administration for this novel. Thanks, too, to Gina Centrello for her enthusiastic support of this book. I’m indebted to everyone at Random House who helped shepherd this story through all its various forms: Derrill Hagood, Anna Pitoniak, Erica Gonzalez, Janet Wygal, Avideh Bashirrad, Sally Marvin, Jennifer Garza, Samantha Leach, Sanyu Dillon, Leigh Marchant, and everyone else in-house whose fingerprints are stamped on these pages.
Thank you to my wonderful agent, Dorian Karchmar, whose patience, intelligent criticism, and unwavering support kept me going when I was ready to give up writing and take up the ukulele.
I’m lucky to count good readers among my friends and family whose insight and cheerleading helped me keep the faith: Robert Rosenberg, Janet Baker, Adam Davis, Meg Cannon, Craig Rutter, Beth Frede, Dawn Roth, and Kara Cleffi.
And to my dear friend Caren Streb, to whom this book is indebted in immeasurable ways.
Love to my three families, Drew, Larson, and Frede, who endured numerous family visits in which I locked myself in a room and ignored them while working on this book.
All my heart and soul goes to my children, Nathaniel and Adeline, who may one day read this book and wonder, What the heck is wrong with Dad? You both are the greatest things I’ve helped create.
And big, big love to my wife, Miriam Drew, always my first and toughest reader! Without you, there is no book. Without you, I’m sitting on an iron-stained carpet in a San Francisco apartment, writing terrible poetry about a woman I might one day fall in love with. Thanks for letting me fall in love with you, and for getting me out of the poetry business.