Chapter 2 2 страница

'Hello, ' said Henry coldly, turning to me.

'Hello. '

'How are you? ' He was like a robot.

'Fine. '

That's good. '

'Here you go, old top, ' said Bunny, producing the check.

Henry looked hard at the total, his face motionless.

'Well, ' said Bunny chummily, his voice booming in the tense silence, 'I'd apologize for dragging you away from your book if you hadn't brought it with you. What you got there? Any good? '

Without a word, Henry handed it to him. The lettering on the front was in some Oriental language. Bunny stared at it for a moment, then gave it back. 'That's nice, ' he said faintly.

'Are you ready to go? ' Henry said abruptly.

'Sure, sure, ' said Bunny hastily, leaping up and nearly knocking over the table. 'Say the word. Undele, undele. Any time you want. '

Henry paid the check while Bunny hung behind him like a bad child. The ride home was excruciating. Bunny, in the back seat, kept up a sally of brilliant but doomed attempts at conversation, which one by one flared and sank, while Henry kept his eyes on the road and I sat in the front beside him, fidgeting with the built-in ashtray, snapping it in and out till finally I realized how irritating this was and forced myself, with difficulty, to stop.

He stopped at Bunny's first. Bellowing a chain of incoherent pleasantries, Bunny slapped me on the shoulder and leapt out of the car. 'Yes, well, Henry, Richard, here we are. Lovely. Fine.

Thank you so much – beautiful lunch – well, toodle-oo, yes, yes, goodbye -' The door slammed and he shot up the walk at a rapid clip.

Once he was inside, Henry turned to me. 'I'm very sorry, ' he said.

'Oh, no, please, ' I said, embarrassed. 'Just a mix-up. I'll pay you back. '

He ran a hand through his hair and I was surprised to see it was trembling. 'I wouldn't dream of such a thing, ' he said curtly.

'It's his fault. '

'But '

'He told you he was taking you out. Didn't he? '

His voice had a slightly accusatory note. 'Well, yes, ' I said.

'And just happened to leave his wallet at home. '

'It's all right. '

'It's not all right, ' Henry snapped. 'It's a terrible trick. How were you to know? He takes it on faith that whoever he's with can produce tremendous sums at a moment's notice. He never thinks about these things, you know, how awkward it is for everyone. Besides, what if I hadn't been at home? '

'I'm sure he really just forgot. '

'You took a taxi there, ' said Henry shortly. 'Who paid for that? '

Automatically I started to protest, and then stopped cold. Bunny had paid for the taxi. He'd even made sort of a big deal of it.

'You see, ' said Henry. 'He's not even very clever about it, is he? It's bad enough he does it to anyone but I must say I never thought he'd have the nerve to try it on a perfect stranger. '

I didn't know what to say. We drove to the front of Monmouth in silence.

'Here you are, ' he said. 'I'm sorry. '

'It's fine, really. Thank you, Henry. '

'Good night, then. '

I stood under the porch light and watched him drive away.

Then I went inside and up to my room, where I collapsed on my bed in a drunken stupor.

'We heard all about your lunch with Bunny, ' said Charles.

I laughed. It was late the next afternoon, a Sunday, and I'd been at my desk nearly all day reading the Parmenides. The Greek was rough going but I had a hangover, too, and I'd been at it so long that the letters didn't even look like letters but something else, indecipherable, bird footprints on sand. I was staring out the window in a sort of trance, at the meadow cropped close like bright green velvet and billowing into carpeted hills at the horizon, when I saw the twins, far below, gliding like a pair of ghosts on the lawn.

I leaned out the window and called to them. They stopped and turned, hands shading brows, eyes screwed up against the evening glare. 'Hello, ' they called, and their voices, faint and ragged, were almost one voice floating up to me. 'Come down. '

So now we were walking in the grove behind the college, down by the scrubby little pine forest at the base of the mountains, with one of them on either side of me.

They looked particularly angelic, their blond hair windblown, both in white tennis sweaters and tennis shoes. I wasn't sure why they'd asked me down. Though polite enough, they seemed wary and slightly puzzled, as if I were from some country with unfamiliar, eccentric customs, which made it necessary for them to take great caution in order not to startle or offend.

'How'd you hear about it? ' I said. 'The lunch? '

'Bun called this morning. And Henry told us about it last night. '

'I think he was pretty mad. '

Charles shrugged. 'Mad at Bunny, maybe. Not at you. '

'They don't care for each other, do they? '

They seemed astonished to hear this.

'They're old friends, ' said Camilla.

'Best friends, I would say, ' said Charles. 'At one time you never saw them apart. '

'They seem to argue quite a bit. '

'Well, of course, ' said Camilla, 'but that doesn't mean they're not fond of each other all the same. Henry's so serious and Bun's so sort of – well, not serious – that they really get along quite well. '

'Yes, ' said Charles. 'L'Allegro and II Penseroso. A well-matched pair. I think Bunny's about the only person in the world who can make Henry laugh. ' He stopped suddenly and pointed into the distance. 'Have you ever been down there? ' he said. 'There's a graveyard on that hill. ' j I could see it, just barely, through the pines – a flat, straggled line of tombstones, rickety and carious, skewed at such angles that they gave a hectic, uncanny effect of motion, as if some j hysterical force, a poltergeist perhaps, had scattered them only moments before.

'It's old, ' said Camilla. 'From the i, 'oos. There was a town there too, a church and a mill. Nothing left but foundations, but you can still see the gardens they planted. Pippin apples and wintersweet, moss roses growing where the houses were. God knows what happened up there. An epidemic, maybe. Or a fire. '

'Or the Mohawks, ' said Charles. 'You'll have to go see it sometime. The cemetery especially. '

'It's pretty. Especially in the snow. '

The sun was low, burning gold through the trees, casting our shadows before us on the ground, long and distorted. We walked for a long time without saying anything. The air was musty with far-off bonfires, sharp with the edge of a twilight chill. There was no noise but the crunch of our shoes on the gravel path, the whistle of wind in the pines; I was sleepy and my head hurt and there was something not quite real about any of it, something like a dream. I felt that at any moment I might start, my head on a pile of books at my desk, and find myself in a darkening room, alone.

Suddenly Camilla stopped and put a finger to her lips. In a dead tree, split in two by lightning, were perched three huge, black birds, too big for crows. I had never seen anything like them before.

'Ravens, ' said Charles.

We stood stock-still, watching them. One of them hopped clumsily to the end of a branch, which squeaked and bobbed under its weight and sent it squawking into the air. The other two followed, with a battery of flaps. They sailed over the meadow in a triangle formation, three dark shadows on the grass.

Charles laughed. 'Three of them for three of us. That's an augury, I bet. '

'An omen. '

'Of what? ' I said.

'Don't know, ' said Charles. 'Henry's the ornithomantist. The bird-diviner. '

'He's such an old Roman. He'd know. '

We had turned towards home and, at the top of a rise, I saw the gables of Monmouth House, bleak in the distance. The sky was cold and empty. A sliver of moon, like the white crescent of a thumbnail, floated in the dim. I was unused to those dreary autumn twilights, to chill and early dark; the nights fell too quickly and the hush that settled on the meadow in the evening filled me with a strange, tremulous sadness. Gloomily, I thought of Monmouth House: empty corridors, old gas-jets, the key turning in the lock of my room.

'Well, see you later, ' Charles said, at the front door of Monmouth, his face pale in the glow of the porch lamp.

Off in the distance, I saw the lights in the dining hall, across Commons; could see dark silhouettes moving past the windows.

'It was fun, ' I said, digging my hands in my pockets. 'Want to come have dinner with me? '

'Afraid not. We ought to be getting home. '

'Oh, well, ' I said, disappointed but relieved. 'Some other time. '

'Well, you know…? ' said Camilla, turning to Charles.

He furrowed his eyebrows. 'Hmnn, ' he said. 'You're right. '

'Come have dinner at our house, ' said Camilla, turning impulsively back to me.

'Oh, no, ' I said quickly.

'Please. '

'No, but thanks. It's all right, really. '

'Oh, come on, ' said Charles graciously. 'We're not having anything very good but we'd like you to come, ' I felt a rush of gratitude towards him. I did want to go, rather a lot. 'If you're sure it's no trouble, ' I said.

'No trouble at all, ' said Camilla. 'Let's go. '

Charles and Camilla rented a furnished apartment on the third floor of a house in North Hampden. Stepping inside, one found oneself in a small living room with slanted walls and dormer windows. The armchairs and the lumpy sofa were upholstered in dusty brocades, threadbare at the arms: rose patterns on tan, acorns and oak leaves on mossy green. Everywhere were tattered doilies, dark with age. On the mantel of the fireplace (which I later discovered was inoperable) glittered a pair of lead-glass candelabra and a few pieces of tarnished silver plate.

Though not untidy, exactly, it verged on being so. Books were stacked on every available surface; the tables were cluttered with papers, ashtrays, bottles of whiskey, boxes of chocolates; umbrellas and galoshes made passage difficult in the narrow hall.

In Charles's room clothes were scattered on the rug and a rich confusion of ties hung from the door of the wardrobe; Camilla's night table was littered with empty teacups, leaky pens, dead marigolds in a water glass, and on the foot of her bed was laid a half-played game of solitaire. The layout of the place was peculiar, with unexpected windows and halls that led nowhere and low doors I had to duck to get through, and everywhere I looked was some fresh oddity: an old stereopticon (the palmy avenues of a ghostly Nice, receding in the sepia distance); arrowheads in a dusty glass case; a staghorn fern; a bird's skeleton.

Charles went into the kitchen and began to open and shut cabinets Camilla made me a drink from a bottle of Irish whiskey which stood on top of a pile of National Geographies.

'Have you been to the La Brea tar pits? ' she said, matter-offactly.

'No, ' Helplessly perplexed, I gazed at my drink.

'Imagine that. Charles, ' she said, into the kitchen, 'he lives in California and he's never been to the La Brea tar pits. '

Charles emerged in the doorway, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. 'Really? ' he said, with childlike astonishment. 'Why not? '

'I don't know. '

'But they're so interesting. Really, just think of it. '

'Do you know many people here from California? ' said Camilla.

'No. '

'You know Judy Poovey. '

I was startled: how did she know that? 'She's not my friend, ' I said.

'Nor mine, ' she said. 'Last year she threw a drink in my face. '

'I heard about that, ' I said, laughing, but she didn't smile.

'Don't believe everything you hear, ' she said, and took another sip of her drink. 'Do you know who Cloke Rayburn is? '

I knew of him. There was a tight, fashionable clique of Californians at Hampden, mostly from San Francisco and L. A.; Cloke Rayburn was at its center, all bored smiles and sleepy eyes and cigarettes. The girls from Los Angeles, Judy Poovey included, were fanatically devoted to him. He was the sort you saw in the men's room at parties, doing coke on the edge of the sink.

'He's a friend of Bunny's. '

'How's that? ' I said, surprised.

'They were at prep school together. At Saint Jerome's in Pennsylvania. '

'You know Hampden, ' said Charles, taking a large gulp of his 7i drink. 'These progressive schools, they love the problem student, the underdog. Cloke came in from some college in Colorado after his first year. He went skiing every day and failed every class. Hampden's the last place on earth '

'For the worst people in the world, ' said Camilla, laughing.

'Oh, come on now, ' I said.

'Well, in a way, I think it's true, ' said Charles. 'Half the people here are here because nowhere else would let them in. Not that Hampden's not a wonderful school. Maybe that's why it's wonderful. Take Henry, for instance. If Hampden hadn't let him in, he probably wouldn't have been able to go to college at all. '

'I can't believe that, ' I said.

'Well, it does sound absurd, but he never went past tenth grade in high school and, 1 mean, how many decent colleges are likely to take a tenth-grade dropout? Then there's the business of standardized tests. Henry refused to take the SATs – he'd probably score off the charts if he did, but he's got some kind of aesthetic objection to them. You can imagine how that looks to an admissions board. ' He took another sip of his drink. 'So, how did you end up here? '

The expression in his eyes was hard to read. 'I liked the catalogue, ' I said.

'And to the admissions board I'm sure that seemed a perfectly sensible reason for letting you in. '

I wished I had a glass of water. The room was hot and my throat was dry and the whiskey had left a terrible taste in my mouth, not that it was bad whiskey; it was actually quite good, but I had a hangover and I hadn't eaten all day, and I felt, all at once, very nauseous.

There was a knock at the door and then a flurry of knocks.

Without a word, Charles drained his drink and ducked back into the kitchen while Camilla went to answer it.

Before it was even open all the way I could see the glint of little round glasses. There was a chorus of hellos, and there they 72. all were: Henry; Bunny, with a brown paper bag from the supermarket; Francis, majestic in his long black coat, clutching, with a black-gloved hand, the neck of a bottle of champagne.

The last inside, he leaned to kiss Camilla – not on the cheek, but on the mouth, with a loud and satisfied smack. 'Hello, dear, ' he said. 'What a happy mistake we have made. I've got champagne, and Bunny brought stout, so we can make black and tans. What have we got to eat tonight? '

I stood up.

For a fraction of a second they were struck silent. Then Bunny shoved his paper bag at Henry and stepped forward to shake my hand. 'Well, well. If it isn't my partner in crime, ' he said. 'Haven't had enough of going out to dinner, eh? '

He slapped me on the back and started to babble. I felt hot, and rather sick. My eyes wandered around the room. Francis was talking to Camilla. Henry, by the door, gave me a small nod and a smile, nearly imperceptible.

'Excuse me, ' I said to Bunny. Till be back in just a minute. '

I found my way to the kitchen. It was like a kitchen in an old person's house, with shabby red linoleum and – in keeping with this odd apartment – a door that led onto the roof. I filled a glass from the tap and bolted it, a case of too much, too quickly.

Charles had the oven open and was poking at some lamb chops with a fork.

I – due largely to a rather harrowing tour my sixth-grade class took through a meat-packing plant – have never been much of a meat eater; the smell of lamb I would not have found appealing in the best of circumstances, but it was particularly repulsive in my current state. The door to the roof was propped open with a kitchen chair, a draft blowing through the rusty screen. I filled my glass again and went to stand by the door: deep breaths, I thought, fresh air, that's the ticket… Charles burned his finger, cursed, and slammed the oven shut. When he turned around he seemed surprised to find me.

'Oh, hi, ' he said. 'What is it? Can I get you another drink? '

'No, thanks. '

He peered at my glass. 'What've you got? Is that gin? Where did you dig that up? '

Henry appeared in the door. 'Do you have an aspirin? ' he said to Charles.

'Over there. Have a drink, why don't you. '

Henry shook a few aspirins into his hand, along with a couple of mystery pills from his pocket, and washed them down with the glass of whiskey Charles gave him.

He had left the aspirin bottle on the counter and surreptitiously I went over and got a couple for myself, but Henry saw me do it. 'Are you ill? ' he said, not unkindly.

'No, just a headache, ' 1 said.

'You don't have them often, I hope? '

'What? ' said Charles. 'Is everybody sick? '

'Why is everybody in here? ' Bunny's pained voice came booming from the hallway. 'When do we eat? '

'Hold on, Bun, it'll only be a minute. '

He sauntered in, peering over Charles's shoulder at the tray of chops he'd just removed from the broiler. 'Looks done to me, ' he said, and he reached over and picked up a tiny chop by the bone end and began to gnaw on it.

'Bunny, don't, really, ' said Charles. 'There won't be enough to go around. '

'I'm starving, ' said Bunny with his mouth full. 'Weak from hunger. '

'Maybe we can save the bones for you to chew on, ' Henry said rudely.

'Oh, shut up. '

'Really, Bun, I wish you would wait just a minute, ' said Charles.

'Okay, ' Bunny said, but he reached over and stole another chop when Charles's back was turned. A thin trickle of pinkish juice trickled down his hand and disappeared into the cuff of his sleeve.

To say that the dinner went badly would be an exaggeration, but it didn't go all that well, either. Though I didn't do anything stupid, exactly, or say anything that I shouldn't, I felt dejected and bilious, and I talked little and ate even less. Much of the talk centered around events to which I was not privy, and even Charles's kind parenthetical remarks of explanation did not help much to clarify it. Henry and Francis argued interminably about how far apart the soldiers in a Roman legion had stood: shoulder to shoulder (as Francis said) or (as Henry maintained) three or four feet apart. This led into an even longer argument – hard to follow and, to me, intensely boring – about whether Hesiod's primordial Chaos was simply empty space or chaos in the modern sense of the word.

Camilla put on ajosephine Baker record; Bunny ate my lamb chop.

I left early. Both Francis and Henry offered to drive me home, which for some reason made me feel even worse. I told them I'd rather walk, thanks, and backed out of the apartment, smiling, practically delirious, my face burning under the collective gaze of cool, curious solicitude.

It wasn't far to school, only fifteen minutes, but it was getting cold and my head hurt and the whole evening had left me with a keen sense of inadequacy and failure which grew keener with every step. I moved relentlessly over the evening, back and forth, straining to remember exact words, telling inflections, any subtle insults or kindnesses I might've missed, and my mind – quite willingly – supplied various distortions.

When I got to my room it was silver and alien with moonlight, the window still open and the Parmenides open on the desk where I had left it; a half-drunk coffee from the snack bar stood beside it, cold in its styrofoam cup. The room was chilly but I didn't shut the window. Instead, I lay down on my bed, without taking off my shoes, without turning on the light.

As I lay on my side, staring at a pool of white moonlight on the wooden floor, a gust of wind blew the curtains out, long and pale as ghosts. As though an invisible hand were leafing through them, the pages of the Pannenides rippled back and forth.

I had meant to sleep only a few hours, but I woke with a start the next morning to find sunlight pouring in and the clock reading five of nine. Without stopping to shave or comb my hair or even change my clothes from the night before, I grabbed my Greek Prose composition book and my Liddell and Scott and ran to Julian's office.

Except for Julian, who always made a point of arriving a few minutes late, everyone was there. From the hall I heard them talking, but when I opened the door they all fell quiet and looked at me.

No one said anything for a moment. Then Henry said: 'Good morning. '

'Good morning, ' I said. In the clear northern light they all looked fresh, well rested, startled at my appearance; they stared at me as I ran a self-conscious hand through my disheveled hair.

'Looks like you didn't meet up with a razor this morning, chap, ' said Bunny to me. 'Looks like '

Then the door opened and Julian walked in.

There was a great deal to do in class that day, especially for me, being so far behind; on Tuesdays and Thursdays it might be pleasant to sit around and talk about literature, or philosophy, but the rest of the week was taken up in Greek grammar and prose composition and that, for the most part, was brutal, bludgeoning labor, labor that I – being older now, and a little less hardy would scarcely be able to force myself to do today. I had certainly plenty to worry about besides the coldness which apparently had infected my classmates once again, their crisp air of solidarity, the cool way their eyes seemed to look right through me. There had been an opening in their ranks, but now it was closed; I was bark, it seemed, exactly where I'd begun.

That afternoon, I went to see Julian on the pretext of talking about credit transfers, but with something very different on my mind.

For it seemed, quite suddenly, that my decision to drop everything for Greek had been a rash and foolish one, and made for all the wrong reasons. What had I been thinking of? I liked Greek, and I liked Julian, but I wasn't sure if I liked his pupils or not and anyway, did I really want to spend my college career and subsequently my life looking at pictures of broken kouroi and poring over the Greek particles? Two years before, I had made a similar heedless decision which had plummeted me into a nightmarish, year-long round of chloroformed rabbits and day trips to the morgue, from which I had barely escaped at all. This was by no means as bad (with a shudder I remembered my old zoology lab, eight in the morning, the bobbing vats of fetal pigs), by no means -1 told myself- as bad as that. But still it seemed like a big mistake, and it was too late in the term to pickup my old classes or change counselors again.

I suppose I'd gone to see Julian in order to revive my flagging assurance, in hopes he would make me feel as certain as I had that first day. And I am fairly sure he would have done just that if only I had made it in to see him. But as it happened, I didn't get to talk to him at all. Stepping onto the landing outside his office, I heard voices in the hall and stopped.

It was Julian and Henry. Neither of them had heard me come up the stairs. Henry was leaving; Julian was standing in the open door. His brow was furrowed and he looked very somber, as if he were saying something of the gravest importance. Making the vain, or rather paranoid, assumption that they might be talking about me, I took a step closer and peered as far as I could risk around the corner.

Julian finished speaking. He looked away for a moment, then bit his lower lip and looked up at Henry.

Then Henry spoke. His words were low but deliberate and distinct. 'Should I do what is necessary? '

To my surprise, Julian took both Henry's hands in his own.

'You should only, ever, do what is necessary, ' he said.

What, I thought, the hell is going on? I stood at the top of the stairs, trying not to make a sound, wanting to leave before they saw me but afraid to move.

To my utter, utter surprise Henry leaned over and gave Julian a quick little businesslike kiss on the cheek. Then he turned to leave, but fortunately for me he looked over his shoulder to say one last thing; I crept down the stairs as quietly as I could, breaking into a run when I was at the second landing and out of earshot.

The week that followed was a solitary and surreal one. The leaves were changing; it rained a good deal and got dark early; in Monmouth House people gathered around the downstairs fireplace, burning logs stolen by stealth of night from the faculty house, and drank warm cider in their stocking feet. But I went straight to my classes and straight back to Monmouth and up the stairs to my room, bypassing all these homey firelit scenes and hardly speaking to a soul, even to the chummier sorts who invited me down to join in all this communal dorm fun.

I suppose I was only a little depressed, now the novelty of it had worn off, at the wildly alien character of the place in which I found myself: a strange land with strange customs and peoples and unpredictable weathers. I thought I was sick, though I don't believe I really was; I was just cold all the time and unable to sleep, sometimes no more than an hour or two a night.

Nothing is lonelier or more disorienting than insomnia. I spent the nights reading Greek until four in the morning, until my eyes burned and my head swam, until the only light burning in Monmouth House was my own. When I could no longer concentrate on Greek and the alphabet began to transmute itself into incoherent triangles and pitchforks, I read The Great Gatsby. It is one of my favorite books and I had taken it out of the library in hopes that it would cheer me up; of course, it only made me feel worse, since in my own humorless state I failed to see anything except what I construed as certain tragic similarities between Gatsby and myself.

Tm a survivor, ' the girl at the party was saying to me. She was blond and tan and too tall – almost my height – and without even asking I knew she was from California. I suppose it was something in her voice, something about the expanse of reddened, freckled skin, stretched taut over a bony clavicle and a bonier sternum and ribcage and entirely unrelieved by breasts of any sort – which presented itself to me through the lacuna of a Gaultier corselet. It was Gaultier, I knew, because she'd sort of casually let that slip. To my eyes it looked only like a wet suit, laced crudely up the front.

She was shouting at me over the music. 'I guess I've had a pretty hard life, with my injury and all' (I had heard about this previously: loose tendons; dance world's loss; performance-art's gain) 'but I guess I just have a very strong sense of myself, of my own needs. Other people are important to me, sure, but I always get what I want from them, you know. ' Her voice was brusque with the staccato Californians sometimes affect when they're trying too hard to be from New York, but there was a bright hard edge of that Golden State cheeriness, too. A Cheerleader of the Damned. She was the kind of pretty, burnt-out, vacuous girl who at home wouldn't have given me the time of day. But now I realized she was trying to pick me up. I hadn't slept with anybody in Vermont except a little red-haired girl I met at a party on the first weekend. Somebody told me later she was a paper-mill heiress from the Midwest. Now I cut my eyes away whenever we met. (The gentleman's way out, as my classmates used to joke. )

'Do you want a cigarette? ' I shouted at this one.

'I don't smoke. '

'I don't, either, except at parties. '

She laughed. 'Well, sure, give me one, ' she yelled in my ear.

'You don't know where we can find any pot, do you? '

While I was lighting the cigarette for her, someone elbowed me in the back and I lurched forward. The music was insanely loud and people were dancing and there was beer puddled on the floor and a rowdy mob at the bar. I couldn't see much but a Dantesque mass of bodies on the dance floor and a cloud of smoke hovering near the ceiling, but I could see, where light from the corridor spilled into the darkness, an upturned glass here, a wide lipsticked laughing mouth there. As parties go, this was a nasty one and getting worse – already certain of the freshmen had begun to throw up as they waited in dismal lines for the bathroom – but it was Friday and I'd spent all week reading and I didn't care. I knew none of my fellow Greek students would be there. Having been to every Friday night party since school began, I knew they avoided them like the Black Death.

'Thanks, ' said the girl. She had edged into a stairwell, where things were a little quieter. Now it was possible to talk without shouting but I'd had about six vodka tonics and I couldn't think of a thing to say to her, I couldn't even remember her name.

'Uh, what's your major, ' I said drunkenly at last.

She smiled. 'Performance art. You asked me that already. '

'Sorry. I forgot. '

She looked at me critically. 'You ought to loosen up. Look at your hands. You're very tense. '

'This is about as loose as I get, ' I said, quite truthfully.

She looked at me, and a light of recognition began to dawn in her eyes. 'I know who you are, ' she said, looking at my jacket and my tie that had the pictures of the men hunting deer on it.

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