Invasion of Privacy

lead your life as normally as possible.”
    “Just like today.”
    Fingering the strap, I said, “Do you think keeping this on when we make love is ‘normal?’ ”
    She burrowed a cheek into my chest. “Probably not.”
    “Then why do it?”
    “I just don’t want you to see me... wounded, I guess.”
    “What, from the biopsy?”
    “Yes.”
    “ Nancy , I’ve seen you after this,” I said, tapping lightly on the slight, puckering scar at her shoulder, from a bullet she took right after we first met. “And it didn’t make a difference.”
    “I know.”
    “Well?”
    “Not the same, John. This isn’t some bump or bruise—”
    “—a bullet hole’s not exactly—”
    “—this is almost a mutilation, and I have to be careful with it.”
    “Careful how?”
    “In the way I deal with you about it. Me staying focused at work helps a little, by keeping my mind off everything else. But if the doctor... If the news isn’t good, then...”
    “Then what?”
    “Then I want you to remember me as beautiful, the way you once told me I was.”
    I shifted carefully, so as not to jar or even irritate whatever was beneath the bra cup. Now I was facing her, just enough light for me to make out the bone structure under the whites of her eyes. “Nance, the beauty doesn’t come from what’s on you, but from what’s in you.”
    “Easy to say.”
    “I’ve been there, remember?”
    “And I don’t ever want you to go through with me what you went through with Beth.”
    “ Nancy , whether that comes to pass or not, neither of us can say. But meanwhile, how about we both act normal?” Silence, then a playful tone. “Meaning you’re going to unhook the strap?”
    “Unfortunately my Catholic upbringing makes me incapable of such a thing.”
    “The snap’s in front. Try it.”
    I did, the fabric coming away in my hands. I touched her cross-hatched Band-Aids gently with just my left index finger, then ran the finger, gentler still, over the surrounding flesh. “Doesn’t make a difference, Nance.”
    She brought her hand behind my head and drew me toward her for a kiss.

    On Sunday morning, I used Nancy’s living room phone to check my answering service. Mingled with messages from Primo Zuppone (“My friends would like to know how you’re doing”) were three from Claude Loiselle, all the same: Call me, urgent. She left her number at the bank.
    I dialed it, figuring to get the voice-mail system, but instead drew Loiselle herself.
    “Where are you now?” she said.
    “Why?”
    “How soon can you get here?”
    “To the bank?”
    “Yes.”
    “Claude, what’s happened?”
    “I think you’d better see for yourself.”
    Loiselle hung up.
    Behind me, Nancy said, “Problem?”
    I turned to her, standing in the fuzzy mauve robe. “Not sure. You still interested in going to your office for a while?”
    “At least until one or so.”
    “How about if I drive us both downtown, then pick you up at two?”
    “Sounds good. Let me just brush my hair.”

    To the downstairs security guard at the scimitar counter I said, “John Cuddy. Ms. Loiselle’s expecting me.”
    A nod, and he hit some buttons on his telephone. After whispering into the receiver, he nodded again before hanging up. “She’ll be waiting at fifty-four. You know which elevators to use?”
    “Yes. Thanks.”

    “You came quickly. Good.”
    I followed Loiselle through the eerily empty reception area and corridors. It was as though some foreign power had dropped a neutron bomb that eliminated all the people but left the workstations standing. In her office. Loiselle went behind the utilitarian desk. Everything looked the same as when I’d been there on Friday, two mornings before.
    She said, “Have a seat.”
    I took one of the chairs. “All right, what am I supposed to ‘see for myself?’ ”
    Loiselle said, “Me.”
    I stared at her. “Claude—”
    “I called the police about Olga. I even went over there, to the Missing Persons Unit.”
    “And they told you...?”
    “What you said they would. She’s an adult, there’s no sign of ‘misadventure’—is that a real word?”
    “It is to them.”
    “They also told me she wasn’t missing long enough, and no indication that she’d crossed a state line. It was all very frustrating.”
    I could picture Loiselle showing some poor report-taker just how frustrating she thought it was. “Look, Claude, why didn’t you just tell me this over the phone?”
    “Because I want to hire