“Thank you,” he said. “Ernest forgot how to play, so I’m helping him remember. We’re talking about spirits, too.”

Ernest was staring at Wyatt. “Tell me more about the spirits,” he said. “Tell me everything you saw in the Spirit World.”

“The Spirit World?” I said.

“Yes,” Ernest said, still looking at Wyatt. “Tell me, son. What did you see?”

“Maybe he wants a snack,” I said, trying to change the subject. “Wyatt? Are you hungry? Ice cream?”

“The Spirit World,” Wyatt said, humoring Ernest, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. “Ah, what a place! I met a beautiful woman by a stream. Her name was Clara.”

“Did she have raven-black hair?” Ernest asked.

“Yes sir, she had raven-black hair. Her hair was long. She was really pretty.”

“What else?”

“She was looking for her husband. She was searching everywhere but couldn’t find him there.”

This interaction caught me off guard. I was grateful Wyatt was such a sensitive boy, willing to play along with Ernest’s strange topics of conversation.

“What else?” Ernest asked.

“I met owls and eagles and other beautiful spirits on my walks,” Wyatt said. “I met the Yunwi Tsunsdi, the little spirits. I met Dragging Canoe, too, who told me . . . get this, Pops: ‘You will be a visionary with prophetic gifts’!”

Sonja

SEPTEMBER 3

I WALKED DOWN to Barnacle Bill’s Marina, which sat on the water a little ways down from my house and where I sometimes went to drink coffee and eat lunch and read. The place was busy during the summer months, when vacationers went there to drink and listen to live bands. This afternoon it was nearly empty, probably because it was fall and the weather was getting cooler out, which meant fewer people were staying at their lake houses. Barnacle Bill’s closed for the winter in November, but I liked to go as much as possible in the fall, when it was cool and less crowded.

When I arrived, high water had flooded the deck, where I liked to sit, but the marina was still open. The sun was out, and the sky had cleared. The air was thick with humidity and the movement of birds and insects, pushed by a light breeze that was cool enough to feel welcoming after a storm. A few geese were walking away from the kids playing near the edge of the water, and a dad kept telling his son not to step into the mud. I had my copy of Colette, ready to eat a bowl of soup and drink coffee and read in quiet.

From my small table near the window, I sipped my coffee and watched some kids near the edge of the water. There were five of them, all boys, and one of them was significantly smaller than the others. One boy threw a stick, and the others chased the geese into the water. Then they huddled together, talking. I wondered if they were planning something. I was too far away to see, so I wasn’t sure what they were playing, or whether it was a game at all. A moment later two of the boys picked up the smallest boy and carried him toward the water, while he struggled to break free. They dropped him and ran back to the other two boys, hurrying away from the marina. The small boy stood up and ran down the road after them, until I couldn’t see any of them anymore.

My phone vibrated then, and I saw that my mom was calling.

“Are you at home?” she asked.

“I’m down at Barnacle Bill’s for coffee. Do you want to come meet me?”

“I can’t right now. I wanted to tell you about your dad. Stop by when you can. It’s his memory.”

“Oh my God,” I said.

“No, don’t be worried. He’s getting better. He’s recalling memories better than he has in a long time. We’re a little stunned by it.”

“His memory is better?”

“Yes, it’s amazing, Sonja. Stop by when you get a minute, okay?”

“I will.”

“Let’s pray it’s not temporary. Let’s pray he’s recovered in some way.”

The conversation pleased me. I had been avoiding thinking about Papa’s health for months, because every time I did I felt overwhelmed with worry. This improvement meant something supreme was occurring. I told myself that if Papa got better, I could focus on being happy. I thought about the boys who had been playing by the water and their disregard for the feelings of the smallest boy. As I was leaving Vin’s house earlier that morning, Vin had said he’d needed me to come back over later in the day rather than asking me whether I wanted to. He was very demanding. And when I replied, “Well, if so, I’ll need you to try to be a better lover,” he didn’t laugh, pretending it had hurt his feelings, so I told him I was joking instead of apologizing. This was the manner of men, it seemed to me, so often unaware of their own aggression. My whole life, the men I had been involved with would try to make me feel guilty. When I was young and in school, I used to stare out the window, envying the trees. This became a regular pattern of thought for me, at least for a while, that I stared at a tree outside and envied its anonymity, its beauty and silence. One could appreciate a tree for its pure beauty and expect nothing more. A tree could stand over a hundred years and remain authentic.

AFTER OUR FIRST NIGHT TOGETHER, I found myself less attracted to Vin. This was not uncommon, I suppose. We had spent all morning in his bedroom, naked and rolling our tongues over each other, and I whispered his name and stared at him intensely, trying to strengthen his desire for me. I am a passionate lover, I have been told on several occasions, but I am also able to remove myself from physical sexual acts—and in the middle of having sex with Vin I pretended I was having sex with a married man, which was more exciting than having sex with Vin. I had a fantasy that we were cheating, that it was riskier than it actually was.