"Well, you have to think something!"
She reached into the coiled blanket and lifted out… the notebook? He recognized the charred cover.
Biting at her lip, she began ruffling pages. Suddenly she stopped, handed it to him—"Are any of these names yours?"
The list, neatly printed in ballpoint, filled two columns:
Geoff Rivers
Arthur Pearson
Kit Darkfeather
Earlton Rudolph
David Wise
Phillip Edwards
Michael Roberts
Virginia Colson
Jerry Shank
Hank Kaiser
Frank Yoshikami
Garry Disch
Harold Redwing
Alvin Fischer
Madeleine Terry
Susan Morgan
Priscilla Meyer
William Dhalgren
George Newman
Peter Weldon
Ann Harrison
Linda Evers
Thomas Sask
Preston Smith
"What is this shit?" he asked, distressed. "It says Kit, with that Indian last name."
"Is that your name after all?"
"No. No, it's not my name."
"You look like you could be part Indian."
"My mother was a God-damn Indian. Not my father. It isn't my name." He looked back at the paper. "Your name's on here."
"No."
"Colson!"
"My last name. But my first name's Lanya, not Virginia."
"You got anybody in your family named Virginia?"
"I used to have a great aunt Virgilia. Really. She lived in Washington D.C. and I only met her once when I was seven or eight. Can you remember the names of anybody else in your family? Your father's?"
"No."
"Your mother's?"
"…what they look like but… that's all."
"Sisters or brothers?"
"…didn't have any."
After silence he shook his head.
She shrugged.
He closed the book and searched for speech: "Let's pretend—" and wondered what was in the block of writing below the lists—"that we're in a city, an abandoned city. It's burning, see. All the power's out. They can't get television cameras and radios in here, right? So everybody outside's forgotten about it. No word comes out. No word comes in. We'll pretend it's all covered with smoke, okay? But now you can't even seen the fire."
"Just the smoke," she said. "Let's pretend—"
He blinked.
"—you and I are sitting in a grey park on a grey day in a grey city." She frowned at the sky. "A perfectly ordinary city. The air pollution is terrible here." She smiled. "I like grey days, days like this, days without shadows—" Then she saw he had jabbed his orchid against the log.
Pinioned to the bark, his fist shook among the blades.
She was on her knees beside him: "I'll tell you what let's do. Let's take that off!" She tugged at the wrist snap. His arm shook in her fingers. "Here." Then his hand was free.
He was breathing hard. "That's—" he looked at the weapon still fixed by three points—"a pretty wicked thing. Leave it the fuck alone."
"It's a tool," she said. "You may need it. Just know when to use it." She was rubbing his hand.
His heart was slowing. He took another, very deep breath. "You ought to be afraid of me, you know?"
She blinked. "I am." And sat back on her heels. "But I want to try out some things I'm afraid of. That's the only reason to be here. What," she asked, "happened to you just then?"
"Huh?"
She put three fingers on his forehead, then showed him the glistening pads. "You're sweating."
"I was… very happy all of a sudden."
She frowned. "I thought you were scared to death!"
He cleared his throat, tried to smile. "It was like… well, suddenly being very happy. I was happy when I walked into the park. And then all of a sudden it just…" He was rubbing her hand back.
"Okay." She laughed. "That sounds good."
His jaw was clamped. He let it loosen, and grunted: "Who… what kind of a person are you?"
Her face opened, with both surprise and chagrin: "Let's see. Brilliant, charming—eight— four pounds away from being stunningly gorgeous … I like to tell myself; family's got all sorts of money and social connections. But I'm rebeling against all that right now:"
"Okay."
Her face was
She reached into the coiled blanket and lifted out… the notebook? He recognized the charred cover.
Biting at her lip, she began ruffling pages. Suddenly she stopped, handed it to him—"Are any of these names yours?"
The list, neatly printed in ballpoint, filled two columns:
Geoff Rivers
Arthur Pearson
Kit Darkfeather
Earlton Rudolph
David Wise
Phillip Edwards
Michael Roberts
Virginia Colson
Jerry Shank
Hank Kaiser
Frank Yoshikami
Garry Disch
Harold Redwing
Alvin Fischer
Madeleine Terry
Susan Morgan
Priscilla Meyer
William Dhalgren
George Newman
Peter Weldon
Ann Harrison
Linda Evers
Thomas Sask
Preston Smith
"What is this shit?" he asked, distressed. "It says Kit, with that Indian last name."
"Is that your name after all?"
"No. No, it's not my name."
"You look like you could be part Indian."
"My mother was a God-damn Indian. Not my father. It isn't my name." He looked back at the paper. "Your name's on here."
"No."
"Colson!"
"My last name. But my first name's Lanya, not Virginia."
"You got anybody in your family named Virginia?"
"I used to have a great aunt Virgilia. Really. She lived in Washington D.C. and I only met her once when I was seven or eight. Can you remember the names of anybody else in your family? Your father's?"
"No."
"Your mother's?"
"…what they look like but… that's all."
"Sisters or brothers?"
"…didn't have any."
After silence he shook his head.
She shrugged.
He closed the book and searched for speech: "Let's pretend—" and wondered what was in the block of writing below the lists—"that we're in a city, an abandoned city. It's burning, see. All the power's out. They can't get television cameras and radios in here, right? So everybody outside's forgotten about it. No word comes out. No word comes in. We'll pretend it's all covered with smoke, okay? But now you can't even seen the fire."
"Just the smoke," she said. "Let's pretend—"
He blinked.
"—you and I are sitting in a grey park on a grey day in a grey city." She frowned at the sky. "A perfectly ordinary city. The air pollution is terrible here." She smiled. "I like grey days, days like this, days without shadows—" Then she saw he had jabbed his orchid against the log.
Pinioned to the bark, his fist shook among the blades.
She was on her knees beside him: "I'll tell you what let's do. Let's take that off!" She tugged at the wrist snap. His arm shook in her fingers. "Here." Then his hand was free.
He was breathing hard. "That's—" he looked at the weapon still fixed by three points—"a pretty wicked thing. Leave it the fuck alone."
"It's a tool," she said. "You may need it. Just know when to use it." She was rubbing his hand.
His heart was slowing. He took another, very deep breath. "You ought to be afraid of me, you know?"
She blinked. "I am." And sat back on her heels. "But I want to try out some things I'm afraid of. That's the only reason to be here. What," she asked, "happened to you just then?"
"Huh?"
She put three fingers on his forehead, then showed him the glistening pads. "You're sweating."
"I was… very happy all of a sudden."
She frowned. "I thought you were scared to death!"
He cleared his throat, tried to smile. "It was like… well, suddenly being very happy. I was happy when I walked into the park. And then all of a sudden it just…" He was rubbing her hand back.
"Okay." She laughed. "That sounds good."
His jaw was clamped. He let it loosen, and grunted: "Who… what kind of a person are you?"
Her face opened, with both surprise and chagrin: "Let's see. Brilliant, charming—eight— four pounds away from being stunningly gorgeous … I like to tell myself; family's got all sorts of money and social connections. But I'm rebeling against all that right now:"
"Okay."
Her face was
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