Skyscape by Michael Cadnum Page B

some cherry-flavored Calistoga water, the refrigerator light illuminating the kitchen, the light reaching him where he gazed down, like someone trying to recall something that would change everything.
    She put the glass on one of the coasters her mother had given them for Christmas, enameled copper rings backed with cork. Margaret felt a little sorry for her mother. The woman never knew what to give them, never sure who her daughter was, what she liked, what she loved.
    He left it untouched. The sparkling water made the faintest fizz, a happy sound. If only he could speak. That would begin their lives again. But he didn’t talk. He sat, but it was not the posture of a person at rest. She wondered if she had ever really understood him. Maybe, she thought, she wasn’t the right companion for him. Maybe she had no idea what it was like to be him, to exist inside his body.
    Margaret found the telephone. She pushed the memory button at the top of the row, over the police and the fire department, and the button Curtis never pressed, Bruno’s number in Rome.
    The lawyer’s voice was sleepy, but as soon as she heard Margaret’s “hello,” Teresa asked, “Is anyone hurt?”
    â€œWell, not hurt. Not the way you mean it.”
    â€œGood Lord,” said Teresa, and Margaret could hear the woman fumbling for a lighter, snapping it, inhaling. “What happened?”
    Margaret told the story. She told it well, and even made it sound a little bit funny. Another breezy evening with Curtis Newns and his wife, the former Margaret Darcy, the Bay Area’s artistic Fun Couple. “I thought it was okay when it was over. Like it was almost a joke.” She gave a little laugh, inviting Teresa to find this all amusing.
    Teresa did not laugh. “Are you okay now?”
    â€œI was always okay.”
    â€œHow is he?”
    Margaret glanced at him. Curtis did not move.
    â€œCalm,” said Margaret.
    â€œReally—what’s he doing?” She had known Curtis for years, and Margaret was still a relative newcomer, and ten years younger than Curtis.
    â€œHe’s okay.” Meaning: I can’t talk now; he’s sitting right here.
    â€œThey didn’t take him into custody.” It wasn’t a question, more of a statement to be confirmed.
    â€œThey were more concerned that we could drive safely.”
    Curtis was rarely arrested. It was a part of his power—the law did not dislike him any more than women and critics.
    Margaret continued, “I was ready to tell everyone that the other person started it, which was a little true. Or else mention your favorite phrase, ‘mutual combat.’ And the restaurant loves him, they’ll probably put up a plaque.”
    â€œThis man took a concealed weapon to a restaurant?”
    Margaret spoke through her tears, “He collects rents. He had a gun permit.” He wasn’t even a loan broker. He worked for an absentee landlord, renting out apartments in the Mission. And it turned out he wasn’t even a real estate agent. His broker had fired him.
    â€œYou know what I’m going to tell you,” said Teresa.
    â€œI know exactly, and I know you’re right.”
    Teresa said that now it was time to forget about the police and think about other issues. Maybe it was time to think about Curtis. Maybe it was time to think about her own future. She meant: someday he’ll hurt you.
    And Margaret was listening, but she wasn’t listening with her complete attention. Curtis was on his feet.
    He walked to the sliding glass door, and undid the latch. The door slid with a low, pleasant sound, and then Curtis stepped out onto the balcony.
    She had always been afraid of this. She had hesitated to buy one of these penthouses, fifteen stories up. She herself suffered just the slightest bit of vertigo. Nothing really dramatic—just that spark of anxiety when she approached the edge of a great height and that