The Enchantment of Lily Dahl by Siri Hustvedt

would have laughed at him if he had appeared any less suddenly. But no sound had preceded his arrival—no engine in the street or feet slapping the pavement. Part of setting up for breakfast in the cafe was listening to Webster’s early-morning noises, and when she turned her head and saw Martin, dressed in the same clothes he had worn the night before, she jumped.
    He motioned to her.
    Lily unlocked the door and spoke to him through the screen. “What are you doing here so early?” she said.
    Martin walked toward the door and held out a piece of paper. “I-I-I,” he stammered, “brought you a map.”
    “What for?”
    “To, to get to my house.”
    Lily waved her hands at the sides of her face. “Martin Petersen,” she said in the voice of an aggravated schoolteacher. “I know where you live. My parents’ old house is a quarter of a mile away, and I lived in that house for seventeen years.”
    Martin walked up the single step and pushed his face into the screen. It made a dull pop as he increased the pressure, pushing his forehead, mouth and chin against the wire netting as if he wanted to burst it.
    Looking at Martin, she saw that the tiny crosshatch pattern of the screen was etching itself into the skin of his face, and she also saw that he didn’t care. Stubborn, determined and blind, Martin refused to follow the rules that came automatically to most people, and Lily felt an urge to plow her fist straight into that big, white face that distorted the shape of the screen. Behind Martin she saw Pete Lund stepping out of his blue Ford.
    “Cut it out!” she whispered to Martin. “You’ll break it.”
    Lily unlatched the screen door, let Martin inside and held the door for Pete, who nodded at her.
    After Martin had looked around the cafe suspiciously, like a kid playing Cold War spy, he handed Lily a little square of folded paper. He stuck his now-checkered face close to hers and whispered, “S-s-say it again.”
    Lily stepped back and shook her head. She could feel the edge of the folded paper cutting into her palm.
    Vince spoke from behind her, his voice commanding but not yet angry. “A customer, Lil’.”
    “Coming,” Lily said.
    “Say it again,” Martin was whispering.
    “Dollface!”
    “I’m coming, Vince.” Lily looked behind her. Vince looked redder than usual. She turned back to Martin. His eyes were enormous, blue and desperate. She didn’t want to look at those eyes anymore. She hated that mooning, pleading face and wanted it to vanish. “Mouth,” she said. Then she said it again more loudly, “Mouth.” She leaned toward him and growled, “Mouth! Okay?”
    Martin smiled. Lily thought it was the smile of a drunk—loose-lipped and giddy. She turned away from him and walked toward Vince.
    “Is that a customer or not?” he barked at her, pointing at Pete Lund.
    “Relax, Vince,” Lily said. She glanced at the clock. “It’s five thirty-four.” Pete Lund was quietly reading the Chronicle. “Does he look upset? Is he demanding my attention? You know what he wants to eat. I don’t even have to take his order. Go in the damned kitchen and cook it. I know you. You’re mad about something else. Probably Boom. Is he still living with you? He doesn’t want to go back to his mom, does he?”
    The man folded his arms across his chest and stared at her. “How come I hired the only two girls in this little shit-hole town who talk back?”
    “Because you hate wimps, Vince, that’s why. And sensitive types quit on you. Remember Cindy? She ran out of here bawling after three days.”
    “Aw, get off it, that little broad couldn’t take a joke.”
    “Come on, Vince, that wasn’t a joke. It was a filthy, disgusting story, and you told it to shock her.” Lily smiled. “Is Boomer driving you nuts?”
    “That kid doesn’t know whether he’s coming or going. I’d throw him out if it weren’t for that goddamned woman.”
    “What’s her problem?”
    “When he’s with her, she