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He would have none of it. He had waited so long for children that when they disappointed, there was no remedy other than immediate action. And in truth, by the time the boys were eight
and nine, there was evident improvement. They were still prone to heaviness, true, but they could box now, and no one their age mocked them anymore. And not most but all of their Columbia Grammar teachers saw the change in their academics. Their grades were better than good, edging toward excellence.

Charlotte began to drift.

She had no real interests. Oh she tried. She mentioned one evening that she
’
d always wanted piano lessons as a child and the next week what should be in the library awaiting her but a Stein-way grand. She read the Sunday
Times
dutifully, occasionally visited the natives in Central Park and Washington Square. And she fought her way as often as she could through the Metropolitan Museum.

But she had no true passion for any of it. It was as if somewhere along the line she had checked her heart and forgotten to pick it up.

When she was twenty-nine, when the boys were nine and ten, when she was still as big and beautiful as a dozen years before, except for the stomach scars, Charlotte had, for her, a rare moment of insight. The dead-leaves road that was to be the rest of her life momentarily illuminated itself to her and, much to the astonishment of the children, who were finishing their roast beef, and Mr. Stewart, who had already finished his, she broke at the dinner table. Facing as quickly as she could away, she fled the table and raced ail but blind toward her bedroom.

After allowing a proper composure time, W. Nelson Stewart entered and observed that it couldn
’
t have been anything he
’
d said since he hadn
’
t said anything. Charlotte was abjectly apologetic. How could he dream it was anything of his doing? He was a superb provider, and kind. What, then, he wondered? You know how I get this time of the month, she tried. Ahh, he said; ahh, of course. He asked then when she was due and she replied perhaps the next day, perhaps the day after.

That night he returned, naked under his robe. She was surprised, feigned pleasure at his mounting. She was dry and he came too quickly, but they knew their roles so well by then that they got through it without much pain.

He was, he told her, proud of her. As she was of him, she said, and in truth, was. I
’
ll let you rest, you must be tired, he said, and with his robe on, left.

Charlotte stared the night away.

Soon after, the boys turned ten and eleven. And Charlotte turned thirty. And the new tutor arrived from Oberlin
…

Before she was prone, before she had a chance to do or say a thing, he had turned his body toward her and she could feel he was hard while she was dry and for a moment she wanted to push him away so they might begin again, but now his mouth was on hers, his hands were firm on her big shoulders and he jabbed his tongue at her with such force she knew he was panicked, was acting out of lack of knowledge, was so in need of her tenderness because that was the true meaning of manhood, the ability to forgo force as a path that led nowhere, so Charlotte made a sound she hoped indicated pleasure, because the last thing she wanted was to crush him now, and then she broke the kiss and immediately began another, and this time it was her tongue doing the probing, only soft, gentle, and she made the sound again, hoping it indicated now increased pleasure and it must have, because when his tongue came back it was without the previous almost anger. But the fear was still with him, she could tell as he went next for her wondrous breasts, too too hard he went, kneading them as if they were somehow not connected with the rest of her body, like mounds of dough on a marble table, and she made another sound, and kissed his mouth again, managing to break his hold on her bosom, and when she
’
d tongued his mouth gently, she lowered her head slightly, tong
u
ed, again gently, his tiny male nipples, and they became hard quickly; he was a quick learner, this blessed Theo of hers, he had to be, poets understood, for now he was sucking her nipples and it was their turn to be hard. He was trying to penetrate her now but she wasn
’
t yet moist and if there was ever an ultimate rebuff that was it, to be a man, pulsing and anxious only to find the entrance shut, so she touched him there briefly, briefly kissed his breasts again, tongued his mouth, made her sounds, praying there was nothing wrong with her—she was in bed with that person in the world she most wanted to be in bed with yet how could he know that except by words, and bed is not a place for words except words after.
“
Such a bad boy,
”
she whispered, but he kept trying to force himself on her, so she said,
“
Bad boys must be punished,
⁹
’
and she began to roll him off from his position on top of her and of course he resisted but that didn
’
t
make her stop and in a moment they were tussling there in the small bed, and Charlotte was bigger and heavier and as it began to turn out, stronger; he resisted, tried to, did his best, but slowly, she got the better of it; they were side by side for a moment but only briefly, before she forced his hands down and got astride of him. She held his hands to the mattress and he resisted more than before until suddenly he stopped, pushed up his head, for there waiting for him was a breast, and he suckled it almost as if he had a fever, and the only reason he released it was to wrap his mouth around her other breast, and Charlotte was losing control now, and her legs widened for him and in and up he moved, and minutes later they were still like that, still like that, and she had read of such things, had heard of such things in the schoolyard when girls told stories, it was possible, they said, it was truly possible if there was love that a man and a woman might, a man and a woman might, if there was genuine love between them they might actually climax, climax both of them as one and Charlotte could hear his time was near and Jesus, dear sweet Jesus, so was hers, and his arms went around her and his eyes shut tight and he cried out as did she cry out, her eyes shut tight, and their bodies rhythmed, first with spasms almost violent, then, slower, then slower still, and when it was done, when they were done rather, Charlotte kissed his eyes and worried that her weight might tire him, and rolled alongside her Theo, telling him only that she loved him, and she didn
’
t expect more in return than the fact that he felt the same, but when what she got was silence she glanced at him and saw he was looking at the ceiling, and frightened suddenly that the experience she had just been through was not a shared one, she repeated that she loved him, a bit louder.

Then his eyelids began to flutter.

More frightened, Charlotte stretched out, took his hand, made as if to touch it with her lips.

Theo ripped free of her.

And on his face now: pain.

And the eyelids going faster.

“
Not afraid,
”
Theo whispered.

“
Of course not,
”
Charlotte whispered back.
“
Why should you be?
”

“
Not afraid!
”
Theo repeated. And then a third time, loudest of all:
“
NOT.
. .
A
…
FRAID
!”
And as Charlotte, stunned, rolled
up on one elbow she had never seen eyelids move like Theo
’
s were moving now, because you could not force them to flutter that quickly, no one could bid them to.

“
Theo, Theo listen,
”
Charlotte said.

But he was clearly not in a listening mood. His mouth began to work, and finally he was saying
“
Burr
’’
or
“
Bear
’’
or was it
“
Burden
‘‘
he was repeating over and over?

Charlotte at last understood. Or at least had a good idea, because when he
’
d read her his poems, many of them were simply meant to be love lyrics, the outpourings of a delicate creature with too much emotion to know quite where to store it all. But many others had a deeper ambition, they dealt with Him and behavior, and most of all, morality, and torment, and the word he was saying now, that word was
“
Burn.
”
“
Burn
”
repeated, but softer until it was a whispered litany,
“
… burn … burn …
”
Charlotte knew about his headaches, he had told her, and his black moods were no secret from her either, but this now was undeserved, because
he
hadn
’
t done anything, she
’
d done it all:
“
I
seduced
you
’’
she wanted to say, though she didn
’
t because he was not in a mood to believe it, because, as she watched, and she couldn
’
t be totally sure but as she watched he rubbed his eyes, or she thought he was doing that, rubbing them, except he was rubbing too hard, and as she saw that rubbing them was probably less what he had in mind than tearing them from his sockets she grabbed his small hands and he ripped free but she was back again instantly, tearing his fingers away and he ripped free again and slapped her, slapped her again, and in an instant they were where they had been not all that many minutes before, battling, physically testing one another except before it was a preamble to as close as she could ever come to anything ecstatic, whereas now it was turning into something quite different, a fight for life, for dear life,
her
dear
’
s.

Haggerty knew before he was fifteen that he was going to marry the Rafferty girl down the block. She was Irish, she was Catholic, her father and grandfather had been cops too, she understood.

She wasn
’
t a genius, but she was smarter than he was; she wasn
’
t a beauty, but he never forgot her fifteenth summer when her breasts arrived along with strange thoughts in his head. They held hands and necked and went to Coney Island and she swatted his thick fingers when he got fresh. She was saving it, Helen Rafferty said. For what, ./or
what Jesus?
Haggerty said. For when it
’
s legal, she told him. Helen that could be years.
Years.
She ran her hands along her body. Worth the wait, she assured him.

They married while Haggerty was at the Police Academy and their first night she
demanded
to know, after, if it was or not worth the wait and he hurriedly answered yes, absolutely, but inside he was momentarily troubled because it turned out she was more sexually adventurous than he was. That trouble soon gloriously disappeared. He loved her a great deal, as much as he thought was safe. More even.

But her true value didn
’
t come till later. The first time he was badly mugged walking a tour, she didn
’
t ask about it, didn
’
t weep. She tended him, got him going, no questions at all. She understood not to ask. And the first time he was shot—no, the first time he was badly shot—again her eyes did not moisten. Forthright, let
’
s improve this, let
’
s get that working again, on with the next. She understood.

If their marriage was serene, so was their daughter, Elaine, pretty enough, but not too pretty to cause conceit, quick enough in school but not too quick to cause envy. Helen called her their
pink child. Pink skin, favorite color, pink; personality the same. Never a problem at all.

Frank Jr. more than made up for her. Angry, feisty, raw. He cried when a baby, simmered as he grew. But it was not till he reached h& teens that he began to steal. Haggerty strapped him the first time he was caught. Did no good. Strapped him the second time too. Results the same.

Haggerty, a detective now, used to take long walks alone on lunch hour to the East River, smoking and staring, the container of coffee his only company. His son was a thief. Frank Jr. stole. A cop for a father—not only that, an honest one—-and he stole. His grandfathers both in the force and he stole.

Bad situation.

News began to get out. Frank Jr. was caught a few times, caught at dime stores and candy counters and clothing outfits. And Haggerty couldn
’
t keep it quiet. It was too juicy. Around the precinct it became common knowledge: Haggerty
’
s kid was a whacko.

Bad situation, getting worse.

Being a cop anywhere is a bitch, but trying to cut it in the Apple squares the tensions. Though there are, occasionally, some strange compensations. Like the plastic surgeon on lower Park Avenue who charges a ton for lifts and tucks but who does kneecaps— policemen
’
s kneecaps—free. You tear up a knee on duty, you go to lower Park to the surgeon. And in, would you believe, Staten Island, there
’
s a brilliant dentist who does jaw reconstructions. For cops. As a sideline.

And then there
’
s the Lorber Foundation,.

Ike Lorber wrote books, taught, traveled, lectured, and was generally considered to be just about the most successful, or at least the highest priced shrink in the city. The Foundation—it was really a clinic, but for legal reasons Ike
’
s lawyers wanted it called a foundation—was a large limestone house on Fifth just below Sinai. There was a receptionist, several other shrinks, several other apprentice shrinks, not to mention Lorber
’
s wife, Essy, an analyst of distinction on her own.

Haggerty was just the least intimidated. He mumbled to the receptionist—the elderly prune type—that he had an appointment to see Doctor Lorber and she quick came back with,
Which?
and he managed that it was Doctor Isaac he wanted and she told him to sit so he sat. Then, a while later, she told him to stand. He stood.

She beckoned for him to follow so he did that too. Finally, she opened a large door and there, seated at an enormous desk, was the Man himself.

Haggerty hadn
’
t known what to expect. Witch doctors weren
’
t his province and more than that, they frightened him. But you couldn
’
t be frightened by this guy.

Placid. That was the word for Ike Lorber. You got the feeling from his expression that he had heard it all, every terror, and no matter what you did, you couldn
’
t shock him and he wouldn
’
t think bad of you. Middle-aged, middle-sized, quick-eyed.

And calm.

Sit down, Frank; thanks for coming over.

Haggerty nodded.

Talking to Captain Hoffman. Said you were into sort of a situation.

The boy steals.

And gets caught.

Yessir. That too.

Which is worse I wonder.

Pause. The stealing.

I took stuff when I was young. Don
’
t most kids?

I can
’
t say. I know that
…

Yes, Frank?

I know I never took a thing in all my life. Don
’
t think bad of me, but I never broke the law.

What a world we live in, Frank, when a man has to say don
’
t think bad of me about being honest.

Everybody
’
s cutting corners nowadays, sir. I was brought up not to. Probably sounds stuffy to you but there it is.

And the boy
’
s how old?

Almost sixteen.

And this is hard for you, isn
’
t it, Frank? Being here now, talking about it?

Pause.

Take your time, Frank—nothing but time here.

Pause. Tightness in the throat. Finally: it just fucking kills me, Doctor Lorber.

Nod. His name?

Pause.

Easy, now; really.

Again the tightness. Finally: His name is Frank Jr.

A glance at the thick appointment book. A scratching out of something. Could you bring Frank Jr. here tomorrow do you think? After dinner I
’
m free. Eight tomorrow night, that fit with your schedule?

Nod.

Writing in something beside where the scratching was.

He may not want to come, you
’
re sure you can be here?

I don
’
t know that the s
u
n will rise, Doctor Lorber—but I promise you this: the boy will most definitely be here
…

The next evening, in front of the large house, Frank Jr. said,
“
I
’
m not gonna talk to no kike.
”

Haggerty hit him hard across the side of the head.
“
You don
’
t call me a mick, you don
’
t call me a spud, you don
’
t call him a kike.
”

“
A hebe then.
”

Haggerty raised his hand to strike again.

“
Well he
’
s a Jew, I can
’
t be talking to one of them.
”

Haggerty dropped his hand.
“
Oh, are you wrong,
”
he said, and, grabbing his son by the elbow, steered him to the door and rang. Doctor Lorber answered, the three of them talked briefly, then Frank Jr. followed the placid man into the office.

Haggerty waited the hour.

They came quietly out, and Frank Jr. asked if he could go outside. Doctor Lorber nodded. The boy left them. Tomorrow night might be beneficial, same time all right?

Haggerty hesitated. I did some checking.

Always get another opinion, Frank.

You cost.

I know. Outrageously. More than anyone, I hope. It helps my ego.

It
’
ll have to be installments.

Hmm?

I haven
’
t got a lot of money.

Well fortunately I have, Frank, so leave my finances to my accountant why don
’
t you. Tomorrow night then?

Is he going to be all right?

Can
’
t talk to you, Frank; medical ethics, you understand?

Frank didn
’
t, but he said tomorrow night would be fine.