"Karen. Why?"
"Karen Why. Is she Chinese?"
Despite the heaviness of the moment, I cracked up. I shook my head and kept laughing. Then our cake came, and we compared whose was better and who'd gotten gypped with a smaller piece.
"So go on with Karen, Joe. She's not Chinese and she's new."
"Why did you want to know her name?"
"Because I like to know the name of the enemy before I charge."
I told her about it generally, and India didn't say a word until I'd finished.
"And you slept with her?"
"No, not yet."
"Spiritual." She took a fork and squashed half her cake down flat on her plate.
She wouldn't look at me when she spoke again. She kept attacking the cake. "Why did you come back?"
"Because you're my friend and because a lot of this is my fault."
"Any love in there, Joey?"
"How do you mean?"
"I mean, did any of your choosing to come back have to do with loving me?"
Her head was bent, and I saw the careful, exact part in her hair.
"Of course there was love, India. I'm not . . ."
She looked up. "You're not what?"
"I'm not a good enough person to have returned if I didn't love you. Does that make sense?"
"Yes, I suppose. What are my chances against her?"
I closed my eyes and rubbed my face with my hands. When I took them away, I looked at her. She had the most astounded look on her face. She was gaping over my shoulder, and both hands were on the table, trembling. I turned around to see what was so amazing. Paul Tate, in his beautiful black overcoat, was making his way through the cafй to our table.
"Hello, Kinder, can I sit down?" He slid in next to his wife and kissed her hand. Then he reached over the table and touched me gently on my cheek. His fingers were warm as toast.
"It's been a long time since I was in here. Right before you went to Frankfurt, Joey." He looked around fondly.
It was Paul. It was Paul Tate. He was dead. He was sitting across the table from me, and he was dead.
" 'Men, you may wonder why I've gathered you all here today . . .' No, I won't be dumb now."
"Paul?" India's voice was the chiming of a small clock in a room miles away.
"Let me say what I have to say, love, and you'll understand everything." He smoothed his hair back with one brisk gesture. "You were right, by the way, India. Right all along. When I died I didn't know if it was because of my heart or because of what you two did to it. It doesn't matter. It's over. Now all of my stuff is done, too. All of the Boy, all of the birds and the white Mattys . . . Done. You two betrayed me once and that's unforgivable, but it was because you loved each other. Finally I'm convinced of that. I see it's true now."
Despite his presence, India and I snuck glances across the table to see how we were reacting to that. Especially in light of what we'd just been saying.
"I loved India and could not believe she'd done it. You see, Joe, she really is a true person, no matter how it looks now. You remember that. When she loves you, it's all yours. When I realized what had happened, I wanted to kill you both. Big irony – I died instead. Death wasn't what I thought it would be; I was given the chance to come back and get you guys, and I took it. Brother, did I take it! It was fun at first too, seeing you little bastards screech and run around, really scared. It was. Then, Joe, you kept protecting her. Sticking your neck out so far it should have been cut off ten times. You did everything right and loving, and after a while and a lot of pain, it struck home how much you loved her. You didn't have to come back from New York, but you did. The way you protected her from the dog the other night . . . It showed me you loved her with everything you've got, and I was amazed. You passed the test, if you can call it that, with flying colors, Joey. You convinced even me. So no more Boy. No more of the dead, Goodbye."
He got up, buttoned his overcoat to the neck, and, with a quick wink for both of us, walked out of our lives.
6
One of the famous Lennox family stories goes like this: Right after my father's mother died, my mother made us all go on a picnic to Bear Mountain. She wanted to keep my father as busy as possible, and picnics were a favorite of his. Ross didn't want to go at the last minute, but after a slap and some whispered oaths from the boss, he behaved himself and ended up eating more fried chicken and potato salad than anyone else. When we were done, my father and I went for a walk. I was terribly worried about him and kept thinking of the right thing to say to ease his pain. I was five and there weren't many things I knew how to say, much less well, so when it came I was excited and proud that I had thought it up all by myself.
We sat down on a couple of tree stumps, and I took his hand in mine. Did I have something to tell him!
"Daddy? You know you shouldn't be so sad that Grandma's dead. You know why? Because she's with our Big Father now, the one who takes care of evvveryone. You know who that is, Daddy? He lives up in the sky and his name is D-O-G."
In the days that followed our meeting with Paul, I wondered where he was. If he'd told the truth, where did people go after they died? I now knew one thing for sure – there were choices on that other side of life; things were far more complex there than anyone could imagine. Never once when he was sitting with us had I thought to ask him about it, but afterward I realized he probably wouldn't have said anyway. I was sure of that. It was Paul's way.
D-O-G. I was sorry I'd never had the chance to tell him that story.
7
"Where's Paul's pen?"
She stood in the door of my apartment in a purple rage.
"Do you want to come in?"
"You took it, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"I knew it, you little thief. Where is it?"
"It's on my desk."
"Well, go get it."
"All right, India. Take it easy."
"I don't want to take it easy. I want that pen."
She followed me in. I felt stupid and guilty. Ten-year-old guilt. My head bulged with conflicting ideas and emotions. Paul was gone, but exactly what did that mean? I could go now; I had done my duty to India. When was anything ever that simple? I hadn't answered her question about whether or not she had a "chance" against Karen. If Paul had remained a factor in our lives, I wouldn't have had to answer that question for a long time. Now I did.
"Give me that! Why'd you steal it, anyway?" She shoved it into her pocket and patted it a couple of times to make sure it was there.
"I guess because it was Paul's. I took it right after he died, before anything started to happen, if it makes any difference."
"You could have asked, you know."
"You're right – I could have asked. Do you want to sit down or anything?"
"I don't know. I don't think I like you very much today. What are you planning to do now? What's on your agenda? You could have called me, you know."
"India, back off, huh. Slow down."
Karen in New York; a fifty-fifty chance I could win her back if I left immediately. India in Vienna; free, alone, angry. Angry because she had betrayed the true love of her life for me. Angry because she thought I had come back to her for all the best reasons in the world, only to find at the worst possible time I'd done it out of ninety percent duty and only ten percent love. Angry because her betrayal had caused death and pain and fear and finally, in the end, a future that promised little more than permanent guilt and self-hatred.
Looking at her, I knew all of that and, in an incredible instant of clarity, decided that no matter what happened I would stay with India as long as she needed me. A montage of Karen in bed, at the altar, raising and loving his children, laughing forever at his jokes, came and went, and I told myself I had to believe it didn't matter anymore. India needed me, and the rest of my life would be utterly false and selfish – inexcusable – if I failed her now.