Innocence

Although I was accustomed to going into locked places where I wasn’t supposed to venture, I never did so with the intention of committing a crime. Listening to Mr. Hanlon, I grew uneasy, though I had to assume that Gwyneth likewise harbored no criminal intent. I loved her with such devotion that I could not do otherwise than trust her. In mere hours, trust had ceased to be a choice and had become, with love, the foundation of all my hopes for the future.

Mr. Hanlon said, “His private apartment occupies the entire third floor. You’ll find what you need in the living room. He usually takes a tablet of Lunesta before bed. He should be sound asleep, down a long hallway, in his bedroom. If you’re reasonably quiet, he won’t know you’re there.”

Sensing that the meeting had reached an end, I looked down at the floor, worried that Mr. Hanlon would forget his promise to me and would turn to say good-bye, quite naturally looking straight into my eyes.

Perhaps I needn’t have been concerned. He said, “Addison, you take care of this girl.”

“I’ll do my best, sir. But I suspect she’ll end up taking care of me.”

I could hear his smile in his words. “You’re probably right. Our Gwynie is a force of nature.” He said to her, “I’ll see you in a little while?”

“That’s the plan.”

“You’re really sure you must do this?”

“Very sure.”

“May God be with you, child.”

“And with you.”

Mr. Hanlon accompanied us across the lobby, where we trod upon the hieroglyphics, which included silhouettes and symbols of some Egyptian gods: Osiris, Horus, Isis, Neph, Amen-Ra, Anubis. He let us out, and as we hurried to the Land Rover, he locked the theater doors.

By the time Gwyneth started the engine and switched on the headlights, her guardian was nearing the end of the block, shoulders hunched and head lowered into the wind.

I said, “Shouldn’t we give him a lift?”

“He doesn’t have far to go. If they’re watching his place, we don’t want to get anywhere near it.”

She drove away from the curb, into the iced city as white as a wedding cake. That image sparked another, and into my mind came the figure of a groom standing on the top layer of such a cake. He was the tuxedoed marionette. Imagination is a wonderful but occasionally disturbing gift. In my mind’s eye, no bride stood with the groom, but he smiled as if he anticipated her arrival at any moment.

I said, “Why did you tell him there were things you preferred he not say to me? What things were they?”

“You’ll know soon enough.”

“Do you have some… illness?”

“Illness? Why would you think so?”

“You said you’d give all your money away if it would change things. You said it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“You worry too much, Addison. I have no illness. Truly. And you know I never lie.”

“I never lie, either. But sometimes I evade. And so do you.”

After a silence, she said, “You’re an interesting guy.”

“I am?”

“Yes, and you better be.”

“Better be what?”

“Interesting.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Doesn’t matter. I understand. Now, hush. I need to think.”

The streets were at last deserted except for us and the plows. The bright yellow beacons swiveling on the roofs of those vehicles alchemized snow to gold, and on the walls of nearby buildings, waves of sulfurous beacon-cast light chased wolfish beacon-cast shadows.

57

ON A WARM JUNE NIGHT WHEN I WAS FOURTEEN, there were fireflies in the great park, hundreds of them gliding silently through the dark, familiar to me from my time on the mountain but mysterious in the metropolis. I fancied that they were tiny airships aboard which minute passengers were bound from their world to another peopled by their Lilliputian kind, passing through ours and wondering at the strangeness of this place. That was the first and last night we saw fireflies in the city, as if they had not been borne here by Nature’s intention, but instead had materialized at the will of some other power that meant their throbbing lanterns to warn us away from—or guide us toward—something of importance.

Later on the same night, traversing an alleyway, we heard a man calling out to us, his voice weak and tremulous. “Help me. I’m blind. They blinded me.”

We found him lying beside a Dumpster, and trusting in his claim of blindness, we dared to go to him and examine him by flashlight. He was perhaps fifty, dressed in an expensive but rumpled suit ruined now by bloodstains. He had taken blows to the head. His bruised and swollen face made me afraid for him. Blood oozed from his split lip and from the gums around two broken teeth. His eyes followed not either light or movement, but instead tracked our voices, as he tried to see what he heard. He was strong enough to stand with help, but he was too broken to walk on his own. We were wearing gloves, as usual, and we assisted him, Father to his right and I to his left. A block and a half away, there was a hospital, and in that warm night, our sweat was cold as we risked exposure to get him to those doors.