The Intruder (44 page)
An elderly lady, her face creased and mapped with blue and green veins, sits by herself on a swing, as if she’s been waiting years for someone to push her.
Grief, John Gates has realized, is not a song with a beginning, middle, and end, but an endless symphony playing infinite variations on the same theme. One part fades and another starts. But somehow the sun keeps moving across the sky and trains keep running underground.
He pulls the rake through the grass and sees a cache of empty red-and-yellow-topped crack vials by a flower bed. The daffodils and tulips are starting to bloom. The apple and cherry trees are bursting to life along the cracked old concrete walkways. Crocuses are pushing their heads out among the discarded cigarette butts and used condoms.
God is not merciful, he thinks.
God is not cruel.
God is not forgiving.
God is not vengeful.
God is not fair.
God is not unfair.
God just is.
Like a heart beating or a tidal wave or a summer afternoon or terminal cancer or a child laughing.
He looks across the river and sees the sun glinting off the Jersey shoreline, turning the buildings gold. A cool breeze ruffles his thin and graying hair. A dark-haired child stands ten feet away, watching him with a trembling lip. A little girl in pigtails, a purple dinosaur T-shirt, and pink sweatpants.
“What’s the matter, honey. You lost?”
Her trembling lower lip threatens to pull the rest of her face down into tears. “I want my mommy.”
He puts down his rake. “You want me to help you find her?”
She turns her body, shying away, not sure what she wants with him.
“It’s all right. I won’t hurt you.”
He holds out his right hand. She looks at his face again, trying to find something past the scars and the hollow eyes. The grass shivers and the sun moves a shadow, changing the field’s color. The past is the past. Somehow she connects with his sadness. She slowly takes John’s hand and lets him lead her back into the playground. Inside, the other kids are screaming, scraping knees, flinging each other to the ground and picking each other up with brutal disregard and ill-considered tenderness.
God just is, he thinks. God just is.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Peter Blauner is author of the novels
Casino Moon
and
Slow Motion Riot,
which won the 1992 Edgar Allan Poe award for best first novel of the year. His books have been translated into twelve languages. He lives in Brooklyn with his wife, Peg Tyre, and their two sons.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
