Juniper Street.The fashion ofthe playful flag has arrived.On Iris’s block Daniel counts eleven flags displayed over the entrances, and of these only two are the stars and stripes.The other households seem to be pledging their allegiance to countries ofthe imagination.Flags here de-pict a crow perched on a pumpkin, Dorothy and theTin Man, a cobalt heaven riveted with silver stars, a golden retriever, a pair ofballet slip-pers.It’s after ten on a pretty morning but no one is on the street, a fact for which Daniel is grateful, since he is now driving so slowly that he may as well be parked in the middle ofthe road.
Iris’sVolvo is no longer in their driveway and his mind races as he tries to assign meaning to this fact.One thing he knows for sure:it means they are no longer in bed together—at least one ofthem is out ofthe house.Perhaps Iris has gone to run some errands, in which case Daniel might run into her ifhe drives quickly over to Broadway.Or maybe she’s gone to the campus, or across the river to one ofthe malls.Or maybe it’s Hampton who’s gone, in which case Iris is right there in the house.
He reminds himself not to suddenly introduce a new aspect to the plan; he told himself that all he would do is drive by her house and move on.
Now he is casting about for reasons he might knock on her door, and he forces himself to ignore every spontaneous scenario and to stick with the original plan.
He has seen the house.Enough.Maybe he will return in an hour or so to see ifthe car has returned.Maybe there will be other signs oflife, little changes, clues from which he can concoct a plausible narrative of their day.He steps on the gas pedal, bringing the speed ofhis car up to fifteen, but as he pulls away from the house he is gripped by the idea that Iris is in there, and that all that separates them is fifteen paces and a knock on the door.And though he has promised himself no unplanned actions, he does add one thing to today’s reconnaissance.He dials her number on his cell phone.Yet on the first ring, he feels an overpowering sense ofcreepiness and remorse, and he pushes his thumb against the end call button on his phone with such force that he almost veers into a parked car—an old Mercedes with a bumper sticker that sayscommit randomacts of irrational kindness.
Because he told Kate he was going to do some work, Daniel heads toward his office, for the tiny squirt ofmoral salve it might afford him, though not before driving down Broadway one last time and looking for Iris’s car.He pretends not to see everyone who waves hello to him, and he thinks to himself that ifhe had remembered more clearly all the wav-ing or howdy-doing that goes on in Leyden, he would never have moved back here.Yet to not have moved back here is now unthinkable, a specu-lation that leads to an infinity ofemptiness, like imagining not having been born.The equation is simple.No Leyden = No Iris.Ofcourse, there are a million details oflife and circumstance that had to fall into place to bring him to the spot in which he now finds himself.But in the end it seems to Daniel to come to this:ifhe hadn’t lost that case back in the city, ifhe hadn’t been kicked down the stairs by those three thugs, with their huge hands and reddish eyes, ifhe hadn’t developed the hu-miliating, excoriating fear ofevery dark-skinned stranger he saw on the street, then none ofthis would be happening.
He wonders what Iris will think ofthe story ofhis flight from New York.He wonders ifhe will ever need to tell her.He nervously imagines how it will sound toAfrican-American ears—the panicky white boy packing his bags, quitting his practice, heading for the cornfields and the pastures and the perfect white village with his southern girlfriend and her porcelain daughter in tow.Surely this will have a meaning to Iris somewhat different from the meanings to which he is accustomed, and for no other reason than she is black.He is getting way ahead ofhimself, but he can’t help it.He remembers Kate’s remark about Leroy from the night before:His people came over in chains and mine sat on the porch sipping gin.Something that begins that badly can never end well.So will that be the contest? History in one corner and Love in the other? Fine.Ring the bell.
Let the fight begin.Love,he thinks,will bring history to its knees.
At last, it is Monday, and Daniel is in court, standing in front ofJudge Hoffstetter.On one side ofDaniel stands Rebecca Stefanelli, who most people know by her nickname, Lulu.She is a five-times-divorced, hard-living woman in her early forties, with red hair and a tentative, defensive smile on her face, the smile ofa woman who has had a number ofunkind remarks made at her expense, and who would rather appear in on the joke than be its unwitting target.On the other side ofDaniel stands James Schmidt, a muscular, scrubbed widower who runs a little lawn mower and chain saw repair business out ofhis garage;Rebecca and James had a brief, more or less geographically determined fling a couple ofyears ago and relations between them have been stormy ever since.
Standing next to Schmidt is a barrel-chested, white-haired, flush-faced old lawyer named Montgomery Paisley, in semiretirement but still mak-ing a handsome living representing the company that sold Schmidt his home insurance.Though summer is long past, Paisley is wearing a blue-and-white seersucker suit and light brown shoes.
Rebecca is suing Schmidt for failure to keep his section ofthe public sidewalk clear ofice.She slipped and fell in front ofSchmidt’s house last March, sustaining a concussion, and she claims to have been suffering from debilitating headaches ever since.
Judge Hoffstetter is manifest in his dislike ofLulu Stefanelli.“Miss Stefanelli,”he says,“I’ll thank you not to wear sunglasses in my courtroom.”
“Your Honor,”Daniel is quick to say,“my client is wearing dark glasses on the advice ofher physician, as a way ofwarding offheadaches.”
“This is not a sunny room, Mr.Emerson.Please instruct your client to remove her sunglasses.”
It’s outrageous to Daniel that Hoffstetter is harassing Lulu about her glasses.Hoffstetter used to be a state patrolman inWindsor County;in fact, it was he who gave Daniel his first and only speeding ticket, twenty years ago, when Daniel was seventeen.In those days, Hoffstetter was a hard, fit man, with an accusatory, military bearing, and he was never without his mirrored sunglasses.Now, however, the judge is fleshy;his eyebrows are a thick tangle ofsilver wire above his professorial half-glasses, his long, porous nose is a ruin ofself-indulgence.
Hoffstetter is silent.He leans back in his creaking chair, taps his fingertips together.He peers at Daniel as ifhe’s about to cite him for con-tempt.But then he sits forward, claps his hands together.
“Okay, you two, chambers.”
“What’s he doing?”Rebecca Stefanelli whispers to Daniel.Her breath has a warm vermouth quality to it and Daniel can only hope Hoffstetter hasn’t gotten a whiffofit.
“Don’t worry,”Daniel says.And when she looks at him questioningly, he adds,“We’re right and they’re wrong and that still means something.”