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This was one meeting he would not mind being late for. At work he prided himself on his shrewd handling of tricky meetings. But this one would be different. The flicker of hope he had for it was sparked by Zoltan's having called it at all, but Mack
could not imagine an explanation that would satisfy him or pacify Heather. He hardly knew which disturbed him most: Zoltan's exploitation, Heather's petulance, or his own hubris. For without doubt he had set the whole thing going, had practically begged to be taken in, taking Zoltan in.

Too bad he couldn't wave the Projects & Prospects list in Zoltan's face without giving himself away, demand an accounting of the Balkan Freedom Fund, ask how many heady conversations could pay for each insult. Stipend indeed! On the contrary, he ought to charge Zoltan damages for so grossly abusing them. Patronizing a patron, treating Heather like a housemaid, squandering his gifts. Heather was right. Zoltan teach them how to live? He could teach Zoltan a thing or two.

Even so, part of him was sorry to see the adventure end. It wasn't only that without Zoltan around he would be less free to concentrate on the L.A. deal, which now required his full attention, or even that he would miss the exhilarating talk, the satisfaction of serving art, Zoltan's gratitude. He knew that after Zoltan left, the household would probably revert to dull routine and petty resentments, like the charred stubble left after a fire. How quickly Heather's radiant face would shed its
glow. Their sensual knowledge of being powerfully seen would wither. In Heather's eyes Mack would revert to being an absent father, and in his own eyes an impostor, a hustler, a fraud.

Suddenly the headlights caught a pair of eyes, unmoving, in the center of the road: some small mammal frozen with fear. Instinctively Mack hit the brake. Too hard, too late: instead of stopping, the car, following the heartless law of inertia, continued straight ahead in a steady skid. “Move!” he shouted, frantically turning the wheel one way, then the other.

In an instant the car left the road and thudded into a tree. He should never have swerved to avoid those eyes; he should have hit the little bastard instead; he should have been driving the Subaru, he thought, as he cut the ignition and got out to survey the damage. The front bumper was hanging down, one fender was slightly dented, but miraculously, the headlights still shone. Lucky he'd been driving slowly. He wondered if the eyes had got away, and what kind of creature they belonged to: rabbit? woodchuck? squirrel? possum? He got the shovel out of the trunk and cleared a path behind the back wheels. Then he started up the car, put it into reverse, and after a few scary spins of
the tires managed to back onto the road. He heard the front left tire scraping against the fender, but at least he was moving. Immensely relieved, he called Heather to tell her he'd be late and promised her to drive the rest of the way at a crawl.

WHEN MACK TELEPHONED WITH
the news of his accident, a feeling of dread came over Heather. Often she had imagined just such an accident, usually fatal. In her dreams Mack would be at the wheel, sometimes in a car, sometimes a plane, sometimes nearby, sometimes far away—and not always while she was asleep in her bed, either. She couldn't help it, he was gone so much. She'd see him speeding along, oblivious of the danger, and then the scene would switch to someone somberly delivering the news, forever altering her life. If the dream had been colored blue, it would switch to orange; if silver, to red—the colors, she imagined, of dawn, of hope, of freedom.

Now, hearing about his accident, however slight, her mind's eye saw black. She could not picture what had happened, only what might have happened. He could have died there—and just when she had come to appreciate that he was on her side.
He could have died, leaving her and the children alone to fend for themselves.

Once when she was seven her father had crashed into a tree with her asleep in the passenger seat (the “death seat,” he'd called it afterward). It had been a hot, sultry night and they'd been traveling home from a family reunion in a distant town. Maybe he'd fallen asleep at the wheel—she never knew. Wasn't her mother also in the car? If so, wouldn't she have been the one in the death seat, with Heather and her sister asleep in the back? All the details were fuzzy before the moment when she woke to find the push buttons of the car radio rolling in her lap, a great elm tree leaning on the windshield, and her father sobbing as he held her in his arms. Whenever she recalled that scene it was as vivid as if it had just happened; now it returned when she contemplated Mack's accident. Miraculously no one had been hurt—then and, if Mack was telling the truth, now as well.

She had always been impressed by the power of her dreams. (Hadn't they brought her Zoltan?—though reality had turned them sour.) Now she was appalled by it. When she hung up the phone she felt so weak she had to sit down, though there was still much to do in preparation for the meeting.
Even though the announcement of the accident had been delivered not by a stranger, as in her dreams, but by Mack himself, it was enough like her dreams that she couldn't stop thinking how close she had come to killing him.

23
       
HEATHER ARRANGED THE SEATING
into two facing groups near the fire and flicked the indirect spots on the high beams, as if for a touring architectural jury. On the mantel sat a vibrant arrangement of seeds and leaves she and the children had collected before they went to bed. She put on a CD of minimalist flute music that Zoltan had once asked her not to play, then stared out the window at the huge snowflakes filling the sky, looking like white ashes as they danced around the path lights. The night was dramatic and portentous. She was pleased.

Barbara and Abe Rabin arrived first. Heather hugged each of them at the door. “Thanks so much for coming all the way up here in the snow,” she said, taking their coats.

“Where do you want our boots?” asked Rabin, adding in a whisper, “Is he here?”

“Not yet.”

“I don't know exactly what it is you want us to do,” said Barbara, removing her hat and finger-combing her hair. She was wearing her contacts, high-heeled boots, and despite the cold a thin low-cut sweater.

“Nothing, really. I have no more idea of what he's planning than you do. I was flabbergasted when he called this meeting. I just need you for moral support.”

Barbara gave Heather's hand a supportive squeeze. “Is he really refusing to leave?”

“So far.”

Rabin harrumphed. “How can he? It's your house.”

“Not to him it's not. He says it's Mack's house, though I told him it's in my name. Which it happens to be. I also told him Mack agrees with me.”

Rabin snorted, “Typical schnorrer maneuver.”

Heather led them to the fireside. “Why don't you sit over here, okay? This will be our side. They can sit over there.”

“They?” said Rabin, easing his large bearish frame into a chair.

“Yes. Zoltan is bringing his girlfriend. That's one of the reasons I need you here. So as not to be outnumbered.”

Rabin was wrestling his sweater over his big head when the doorbell rang. Everyone braced up. Heather wondered if she ought to count it a victory that Zoltan had not let himself in with his key. She laid a finger against her lips for silence, then walked to the door.

“Come in, come in.”

Zoltan averted his eyes, refusing to look at her. Adorned again in his signature black cape, with rubber galoshes, fur hat with earflaps down, and long striped scarf wound around his neck, he again appeared utterly strange to her, even after three months and a swanky new wardrobe. By contrast, the woman beside him looked quite ordinary, in a blue parka and high, black, thick-soled boots, if a bit too skinny and blond and made-up to please Heather, who watched her stamp her feet on the mat and drop her car keys into her pocket.

“Heather, may I present Elaine Glinka?” said Zoltan, laying on the accent. “Elaine, please meet Heather McKay.”

“Glad to meet you,” said Elaine. As they shook hands Heather noted with satisfaction that Elaine's
mouth was asymmetrical, giving an impression of lurching slightly to the left, and her fingernails were deeply bitten.

“Me too.” Heather held out her arms for their garments, but Zoltan waved her off. “Will keep them, thank you.”

In the living room Zoltan stopped short at the sight of the Rabins. He looked around. “Where is Mack?”

“He had a slight accident on the road, but he should be along any minute,” said Heather. “Barbara Rabin, Abe Rabin, Zoltan Barbu, and, uh, Elaine, uh …”

“Glinka.”

“Glinka,” repeated Heather. “Can I get you guys a drink? Or some coffee?”

“No thank you,” said Zoltan. “We will wait in my room until Mack arrives.” He executed a little bow. “Come, Elaine.”

“Did you hear that?” whispered Barbara when they were out of earshot. “ ‘My room,' he says.”

“Quel nerve!” said Rabin, laughing and smacking his right fist against his left palm.

“Didn't I tell you?” said Heather, pouring out three glasses of Pinot Grigio, Rabin's with ice. Even without the wine she felt positively giddy.

“Very strange-looking fellow, I must say,” said Rabin. “Like a visitation from a vampire movie.”

“But I see the attraction,” countered Barbara. “That amazing nose. And of course the accent.”

“It's his voice, too, so deep,” said Heather, “even if you don't always quite get what he's saying. That and the unnerving way he can cast a spell by fixing you with his eyes.” She was embarrassed to be touting Zoltan's charms, when she knew they worked only on the susceptible, among whom she no longer counted herself. She suspected that to the Rabins his posturing must appear more bilious than brilliant, more pompous than profound. How typical of their odd ménage that no one else she knew had laid eyes on this man, on whom the family had so recklessly fixated for three remarkable months.

“What did you think of the girlfriend?” asked Barbara.

“Prrsh,” said Rabin, blowing air through his lips dismissively.

“Not you, Abe. Heather.”

Heather—who had several vivid thoughts about the girlfriend, though admittedly they had so far exchanged hardly more than gratuitous smiles—suddenly heard a thumping noise and frantically gestured for silence.

But the sound came from the back door, not Zoltan's room. Mack stamped his boots on the mat and entered, red-faced and puffing, trailing Tina behind him.

“COFFEE? A DRINK? SODA?”
said Mack. “We have everything.”

Zoltan and Elaine exchanged a secret look. “No, thank you,” said Elaine.

“We're all set,” said Barbara.

“Scotch, please,” said Zoltan, “with soda and a twist, if you don't mind, thanks.”

Mack fixed the drink and handed Zoltan a tall glass. “So,” he said, pouring a finger of Scotch over ice for himself and sitting down beside Heather. “I understand you called this meeting, Z, so why don't you begin?”

Zoltan, who tightly clutched a messenger bag in his lap, cleared his throat, squared his shoulders, and blinked the lights on in his eyes, fixing Mack with the look that had once inspired confidence and hope. “Has your wife told you what she proposes?”

“Why don't you go ahead and tell me yourself,” said Mack expansively. In the corner of his eye he saw Heather sitting cross-legged near the edge of
her seat, the top leg moving rapidly up and down from the knee, her arms folded over her fuzzy white sweater, her face flushed and defiant. This bickering was like children's, like family, with Mack the Solomonic judge and the Rabins the requisite witnesses. He leaned back and spread his arms along the back of the sofa.

“One day she loves me and the next day she proposes me to leave,” Zoltan began, testing.

Slowly stroking Tina, who was curled up in her lap, Heather smiled impassively. She knew who was luxury in Mack's life, who necessity.

Mack nodded.

“And you go along with her?”

“Heather's the one who's home with you, so it's her call.”

“Why? Is big house. I try not to bother her. In fact, Heather sees me only when for her own reasons she chooses.” He glowered. “Did she tell you her reasons?”

Mack shrugged. “Heather's reasons are her business,” he said, with a vague wave of the hand.

“I think you will find they are your business too.”

Heather glowered back. “Mack knows my reasons. Right, Mack?” If Zoltan dared to spell out the details, she would simply dispute them. Her
word against his. No contest—especially since nothing had actually happened.

Mack patted Heather's knee.

Seeing the smug gesture, Zoltan was tempted to tell Mack all about his lovely little wife. But with Elaine there to witness, he chose to take the moral high road rather than sink to Heather's level. If there was any chance of salvaging his position in the house it would be by appealing to Mack's sense of justice. Or his mercy. He wasn't evil, like her, only weak. A weak wretch. (Weak wretch: he liked the sound of it; he must remember to write it down.)

“You realize, of course, I have no money. And if I leave here I have no place to go. I can't go back to L.A., my apartment is long ago gone to landlord's relative. And until I sell my book I can't pay rent. As you well knew when you invited me here to live and sent me my airline ticket.”

“Pooh. You could always sign a contract and get some money,” said Mack. “You have a name to sell. Or apply for a stipend from that Balkan Freedom Fund of yours, get them to use my donation.”

Zoltan crossed his arms and raised his nose haughtily. “You think such money sits wasting in some drawer or bank? It is already spent for good purpose.”

“Oh, really? For what, I'd like to know. Would you happen to have the records?”