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  Del stops. She cradles the bulky pile of folders to her chest, dips, goes into a sliding waltz. She and Marna pass each other as they turn around the room, both of them singing, their shadows moving on the wall. Luke sleeps on, only the in and out of his big brown sides.

  By the woodstove Del slows to a sway and opens the door. A bed of red coals. She spins the vents as wide as they'll go. From the stack she takes the tempo folder, then RECORDING STUDIO; those go in first. She watches them curl black along their edges. Flare up.

  10 : Sharps

  THE WEIGHT ROOM'S EMPTY. From this window Mark's got a long view of the parking lot. He'll be able to see her get out of the taxi, watch her walk his way. A warm rush swells his chest, a flutter of fear. Bomb-shelter urge coming on strong. Been a while, been a long while since he's been with anyone. Been that close. Open. His hinges have rusted.

  He folds the pass so the yellow edge sticks out of his pocket—that way the body-counter won't have to give him any hassle. Free until eight P.M., says so right there in purple. Everybody else is watching a Bill W. movie. He swings his leg over an exercise bike and slowly pedals, just enough to keep his muscles from bunching up, but not enough to sweat. Still getting occasional zaps to the brain, but his hands feel steady enough to light her cigarette. Carry a cup of coffee across the room. He checks his pits—human, no junkie-stench.

  You'll hardly know me, she told him over the phone, I'm getting so fat. This means she's gained maybe two ounces since he last saw her two years ago. Sammi, always slinky-slender, doing the ballet barre every week. Living on Diet Coke and granola. Oh, I'll recognize you, I'd recognize you anywhere, he'd said. He hadn't said know. Oh, I'll know you. The three or four years they'd been together—living at her apartment on Main when she was in grad school, those months in Austin, the millions of cigarettes they'd smoked together stretched out on some futon, staring up at a gray ceiling, talking, not talking, watching videos into the night—one thing he could never have honestly said: I know you.

  Big hand on the twelve, little hand on the six. Sammi's about to pass through his current situation. Two hours. What are he and Sammi going to do for two hours? Want to smoke, have to shiver out in the courtyard. Introduce her to the MICAs in the trees. Steer away from Lorraine. Lorraine's transmissions of stalker-static. But don't be going ironic on the place, telling mocking New Vistas tales to fill in the blanks. Wad rehab into a ball of wit to chuck around in lieu of any real contact. Fuck up what recovery he's got going here. Just be yourself. And which self might that be? Main thing, stay with How Are You? Don't get on a Me soliloquy. Poor fucking me me me. One definite at least: he's looking better. Put on some weight, got some color, a good haircut. No holes in his clothes or his body. Fourteen days clean. Look, Sammi, no holes.

  Leon pokes his head in the door, eyebrows up in surprise. Body count duty.

  He raises the yellow pass, but keeps pedaling. "I'm free till eight. Got a visitor coming."

  Leon smiles. "I was wondering what that squeaking was." This Leon's all right.

  "An old girlfriend's coming. Now what am I going to do to entertain her?"

  Leon begins a slow climb on the StairMaster. "One step, then another and another," he says. Leon's a long time clean. "You could take her for a walk around the courtyard, but it's drizzling out there. You still got an ache in your heart for this woman? You still love her?"

  He stops pedaling. "Love her?"

  "Yeah," Leon says. "Your heart still going thomp, thomp?"

  Mark gets off the bike and leans his forehead into the cold of the glass. "I burned that bridge. Fucking flames lit up the sky for days." Years.

  Leon climbs down and heads for the door. "Well, you never know. Get your life turned around. Maybe you'll see the sky's full of stars once the smoke clears." Leon sends him a look straight to the heart. "You want to talk later, I'll be here till eleven."

  The drizzle has turned to hard rain and through that rain there's a yellow-and-black bird heading straight for him. Sammi's taxi. Sammi coming up the drive. No question his heart's going thomp, thomp, but it's more like panic than love. The taxi door opens and here she is. Sammi. Looking just like herself. Looking good. Hair a little longer, shaggy, a little bluer red. All in black: her favorite black leather skirt, turtleneck sweater. No raincoat. Tall shoes. Her eyes searchlight, and she finds him there behind the glass. Knew he'd be watching for her somewhere close. She smiles, waves. Hey, her red-red mouth says. His own lips say Hey back.

  Awkward standing in the fluorescent light at the nurses' station while Leon goes piece by piece through Sammi's bag, the things she's brought him: a carton of Camels, a photo folder of Wolfie pictures. Wolfie sends his love, she said when she hugged him at the door. A real hug, but no kisses. Going to be a dearfriend visit. He knew this, he knew this, but still there's a sinking in his chest. Heart going down quick behind them thar hills.

  Leon is not officious, but he's thorough. Going through the makeup bag, opening the lipstick tubes. Her change purse. He sets aside Sammi's lighter, her pen. No sharps allowed. "Have to hold these until you're ready to go," he says. Leon gives Sammi a clinical look-over. No pockets, no obvious bulges. This is not the way Mark would like to have started the visit.

  "How about right here?" she says. She's pulled the hood of his sweatshirt so tight around her face, she's just an oval of eyes and nose and mouth. A face Kabuki-white in the courtyard light.

  He's glad for the darkness. He pushes a bench back under the eaves. They're right next to the wall lighter and well out of the rain. From the windows across the courtyard there's the blue flicker of Bill W.

  "Nifty," she says when he shows her how the wall lighter works.

  He lights her cigarette, sucks until the tip glows red, and then does his own. They settle, close but not touching. For a minute, they just smoke, let go of the tension of arrival. Sigh.

  "So?" she says, looking at him through her mascara and liner and shadow. Always it's been tricky to pass through that. Never leave home without it, she's told him. C-l-o-a-k.

  "So. Like I told you on the phone. It's going okay. There's the anxiety about getting into Lazarus. The wondering if that's the best thing for me, if I need something so hard-core."

  "Like how?" she says, giving her head that familiar tilt, that lead with her chin.

  "Confrontation—'when deemed appropriate for therapeutic purposes.'"

  Her eyes are black in this light, but really they are the green of cat eyes. She looks away. "Dual diagnosis?"

  "Seventy percent on psychotropic medication."

  "Really?"

  "Yep."

  Still the scar below her lip: her first try on a skateboard. "What's Rozmer think?"

  Beneath the smell of smoke, there's her Sammi-smell. Pepper. He could always go inside that. "Oh, you know Rozmer. 'Do this or do that, all part of what you're doing. It's all going round and round in the same washing machine.'"

  She laughs. "The Laundromat School." Still the chip on her eyetooth.

  "So"—he leans toward her—"how are you?"

  A shift away, a flicker, but there it is: Don't come any closer. "Hummm, how am I?" She's quiet for a minute. "This story I've been working on." She pulls at the corner of the folder sticking out of her bag. "I can't find the end, a place to get out. So I'm not writing at all."

  S-t-u-c-k. "That's a bad one."

  "Like when you're not doing music," she says, turning toward him.

  Like fucking now. "Bummer." He throws that at her head-on. Why? He knows she hates that word.

  "No," she says, turning away again. "That is not what it is."

  The distance between them. Diverging. "Okay, how about this? Are you depressed?"

  "Depressed? It's this job. I'm sick of slogging through the slush." She shifts toward him, but then leans back against the wall. "We're getting an average of two thousand stories a month. Frank's gone. That only leaves three of us reading the over-the-transom stuff. Six or seven hundred stories
each if everybody's doing their share." She does a gagging motion with her finger.

  "Word bulimia."

  Her nails look black, with a flash of something bright on each one. He takes hold of her hand to see. Vinyl, with silver stars. She holds both hands up to the light and ripples her fingers. They flicker. A crescent moon on each thumb. "My friend Varsi does them. Nice, huh?"

  "Makes it a little hard to use your fingers, doesn't it?" he says.

  "Well, I can't play my cello, if that's what you mean. And I have to lift the Coke tab with a knife. Have to come at the keyboard at an angle to cause carpal tunnel, but other than that." She joins the tips of her nails. "Remember this one?"

  "Two spiders shaking hands."

  "A spider doing pushups on a mirror."

  She intertwines her fingers, her black nails hidden inside. "How about this one?"

  He studies her clinched hands, his finger to his brain. "Two elephants dressed up as spiders hiding in a refrigerator."

  She ripples her hands in the light again. "They cheer me up when I'm on my six-hundredth bad story."

  One more cigarette and then he's going to have to take Sammi inside for warmth. What fun thing can he find for them to do next? The lights come on in the lounge. Bill W.'s done. People start moving about. Bees in a jar. Lorraine, Gerald, Jarvis, Tom … Lorraine looks out. No doubt sees them there. Better fill Sammi in on Lorraine. Soon they'll all be out to smoke. No question Lorraine's going to insinuate herself into the situation before Sammi leaves.

  "One of the women here, Lorraine, has been leaning into me since I arrived. No encouragement from me."

  "Oh," she says. Wary.

  "I'm just telling you because if we run into her, she'll give you some weird vibes." It has got to be at least seven. Time going so fast, going so slow.

  As though she's read his thoughts, she says, "Taxi's coming right at eight."

  The wind's picked up. They both start to shiver. She's sending out the signals, This is as close as I want you to get. "Let's go in," he says.

  It's warm inside. He tries to slip them by the lounge, but no, Lorraine turns just as he glides Sammi by. Lorraine on recon and chances are no matter where he and Sammi go, she's going to track them down. Sammi takes off his sweatshirt and ties it around her waist, rubs her starry hands together. She's right: they are cheerful. "Are you hungry," he says, moving toward the kitchen. A desperate waylay: Sammi's not into food.

  "We could play Scrabble. Bring the board out here." Too déjà vu Austin. They had played a million hours of Scrabble, when he wasn't sneaking off to get high. She gives him that flicker of recognition. "You said there's a gym, right? Well, how about I challenge you to a game of H-O-R-S-E?" she says.

  "Horse? Really?"

  "Yeah, I've been practicing my shots after I work out. Whip your ass if you give me an H-O handicap."

  When he returns from his locker with his new Spalding, she's on the foul line, barefoot, the waist of her skirt rolled up a few inches to give her a bit more clearance. Her sleeves shoved up. Legs tan, tan in March. The gym is so big and they are so small. Bright-bright—no place to duck for cover. He spins the ball on his finger, extending it toward her as it whirls, then moving it away. The hundreds of hours he spent learning how to do this. Look, Dad. See me. See me.

  She feints toward him, grinning. "You trying to intimidate me, boy," she says.

  He takes a hook shot from the corner. It swishes through. "Intimidate you, Sammi. I don't think so. But I am wondering how you are going to get your fingers around the ball."

  "Very carefully," she says. He sets the ball into her bowled palms. She bounces it. Bounces it. Each time catching it in the heels of her hands. "Okay, now you've got to pass it to me gently. No, maybe you better just hand it to me. And, don't forget, you're starting off with an H-O already besmirching your dazzle."

  He moves to the basket. "We know she can talk," he says, "but can she shoot?"

  "Ready?" She spreads her legs and takes an underhand foul shot. It rolls around the rim, wobbles, and drops through. "Huh, I told you I was getting better. Now you have to do it exactly the same."

  "Wobble it around the rim?"

  "The Horse gods don't like hubris."

  The thud of the ball as he dribbles: how he loves that sound, the smack of the leather against his palm. He spreads his legs in imitation of her stance and releases the ball. It drops through clean.

  She moves into the lane. "Ready," she says. She raises her arms, focuses on the basket.

  "Go," he tells her.

  There's the suck of the door closing. He turns. Lorraine. His stomach tightens. This is a little more dramatic action than he needs. Lorraine in complete doll-up: a bright spot of color on each cheek, lacy shirt. Lorraine, giving Sammi the full Geiger. Lorraine coming on, coming on, big smile. Blonde on blonde. Sammi, the dark angel, moving toward the foul line.

  "Lorraine," he says when she finally enters their zone. "Lorraine, this is Sammi."

  Sammi wedges the ball against her hip, her lovely hip, and extends her glittering hand. "Hello," she says.

  A second of fluster before Lorraine gets her hand out. "We were wondering where you were," Lorraine says, turning toward him.

  "I've got a pass," he tells her.

  "You missed a good movie," she says.

  Sammi hands him the ball and looks at her watch. "How about pointing me in the direction of the bathroom. Then maybe we can hang out by the entry and look at the pictures of Wolfie while I wait for the taxi. Nice to meet you," she tells Lorraine. Full face on, her most genuine smile.

  "To the left of the main entrance," he tells her.

  Sammi gathers her bag, slips on her shoes, swings his sweatshirt over her shoulder. Sammi, the pro. The door sucks closed behind her.

  "Your girlfriend? I didn't know you had a girlfriend."

  Draw a line, but don't draw blood. "She and I go way back, but I wrecked all that. We're friends now." He takes a shot from the corner. The ball hits the rim.

  "Looks like she's more than a friend," Lorraine says.

  "Nope. Just friends." He retrieves the ball. He turns toward the far exit. Lorraine moves along with him. He holds the door for her. "See you guys later," he tells her.

  Final scene coming up. Can he leave them laughing? Sammi's waiting by the window under the light. She's pulled a chair over for him, the Wolfie pictures, her story folder in her lap. She's all set. Ten to one she won't mention Lorraine. She's going for an upbeat goodbye.

  He presses his shirt against the trickle of sweat making its way down his spine.

  "Does Leon have to come to let me out?" she says when he gets within range.

  "No. You just can't come back once the door closes. What about your lighter?" Grab on to the ordinary, buddy, and don't let go.

  "It's almost out of fluid anyway. How about if I borrow your sweatshirt though. Mail it to you at Lazarus House."

  She pulls his chair a little more into the light. He sits down. Careful. Careful. "Want to look at the Wolfie pictures?"

  He takes a breath, swallows the rising swell in his throat. "Sure," he says.

  She pulls out the photos. "If you see any you want, you can have them." She hands him the first one. "This is my favorite."

  Wolfie is sprawled on his back on the couch, all four legs in the air, his big shepherd head drooped over the side, tongue lolling. He tries to make his lips turn up in a grin. Good old Wolfie, but his mouth will not smile. Not going to be able to give her the golden goodbye. He hands the picture back to her. He stands and turns away from the light, presses his fingers against the bar that opens the door. "Sammi, I'm going to go up to my room now."

  She comes toward him. He turns for her hug, takes it head-on. Then the stairs, one step at a time. "I'll call you," he says from the landing. "Once I get where I'm going, I'll give you a call."

  11 : Claws

  SUN. DEL HAS to push to free the swollen window frame. Still a bit too chilly, but she leaves it
open a crack. Maybe Mark will call this morning to say if his records have gotten to Lazarus House okay. Maybe the visit from Sammi cheered him up.

  She lifts the horseshoe crab from the window ledge. Just a few preliminary studies. She knows she's not going to loosen up enough to really get going on a project until Mark's settled, but at least she can start drawing, get back into "seeing." The front shell of the horseshoe crab is at least eight inches in diameter. No question this is a mama: her size, the claws of a female. Mama Kanga, Mama Bear, Mama Horseshoe Crab.

  She turns the dried crab's body on its back, so the light will dip into the cavity, cast shadows behind its legs. All that vulnerability once it gets flipped over. This crab that is not a crab, but more of a three-hundred-million-year-old spider. She and Richard had found it at the end of the airstrip in Crystal Key, circles of sand where it had tried to make its way back to the tide line. She rips the paper carefully along the straightedge. This lovely thin paper with no grain. Right for these fragile remains. A hard pencil. She'll begin fine and build up from there.

  The phone. That squeeze in her chest.

  "It's me. I just had a phone interview, sort of, with the people in the business office."

  She slides the paper away and sits down. "Did you get the birth certificate?"

  "Yeah. Now you have to send a rep-payee release. Can you fax that here?"

  "Have you been accepted?" She keeps away from the high tones of joy.

  "Sounds like it's almost a done deal once they get the release. But I don't know."

  "Well…"

  "Sammi may call you. To see about getting a recommendation. She's thinking about applying for one of those residencies. In writing."

  "Sammi. How did that go?" No answer. She shouldn't have asked.

  Finally his voice, tired, far away. "How could it go? Sammi's got a life. It was awkward. I almost wish she hadn't come."

  The swelling in her throat, the sadness she feels for this child. "I'm sorry."