Mr. Murder

afraid he will do something, on the brink of success, to alienate them and destroy his chances for regaining his life. So much is at stake if he dares to ring the bell.
        Daunted, he turns to look at the street and is enchanted by the scene, for snow is falling much faster than when he approached the house. The flakes are still huge and fluffy, millions of them, whirling in the mild northwest wind. They are so intensely white that they seem luminous, each lacy crystalline form filled with a soft inner light, and the day is no longer dreary. The world is so silent and serene two qualities rare in his experience-that it no longer seems quite real, either, as if he has been transported by some magic spell into one of those glass globes that contain a diorama of a quaint winter scene and that will fill with an eternal flaky torrent as long as it is periodically shaken.
        That fantasy is appealing. A part of him yearns for the stasis of a world under glass, a benign prison, timeless and unchanging, at peace, clean, without fear and struggle, without loss, where the heart is never troubled.
        Beautiful, beautiful, the falling snow, whitening the sky before the land below, an effervescence in the air. It's so lovely, touches him so profoundly, that tears brim in his eyes.
        He is keenly sensitive. Sometimes the most mundane experiences are so poignant. Sensitivity can be a curse in an abrasive world.
        Summoning all his courage, he turns again to the house. He rings the bell, waits only a few seconds, and rings it again.
        His mother opens the door.
        He has no memory of her, but he knows intuitively that this is the woman who gave him life. Her face is slightly plump, relatively unlined for her age, and the very essence of kindness. His features are an echo of hers. She has the same shade of blue eyes that he sees when he looks into a mirror, though her eyes seem, to him, to be windows on a soul far purer than his own.
        "Marty!" she says with surprise and a quick warm smile, opening her arms to him.
        Touched by her instant acceptance, he crosses the threshold, into her embrace, and holds fast to her as if to let go would be to drown.
        "Honey, what is it? What's wrong?" she asks.
        Only then does he realize that he is sobbing. He is so moved by her love, so grateful to have found a place where he belongs and is welcome, that he cannot control his emotions.
        He presses his face into her white hair, which smells faintly of shampoo. She seems so warm, warmer than other people, and he wonders if that is how a mother always feels.
        She calls to his father, "Jim! Jim, come here quick!"
        He tries to speak, tries to tell her that he loves her, but his voice breaks before he can form a single word.
        Then his father appears in the hallway, hurrying toward them.
        Distorting tears can't prevent his recognition of his dad. They resemble each other to a greater extent than do he and his mother.
        "Marty, son, what's happened?"
        He trades one embrace for the other, inexpressibly thankful for his father's open arms, lonely no more, living now in a world under glass, appreciated and loved, loved.
        "Where's Paige?" his mother asks, looking through the open door into the snow-filled day. "Where are the girls?"
        "We were having lunch at the diner," his father says, "and Janey Torreson said you were on the news, something about you shot someone but maybe it's a hoax. Didn't make any sense."
        He is still choked with emotion, unable to reply.
        His father says, "We tried to call you as soon as we walked in the door, but we got the answering machine, so I left a message."
        Again his mother asks about Paige, Charlotte, Emily.
        He must gain control of himself because the false father might arrive at any minute. "Mom, Dad, we're in bad trouble," he tells them.
        "You've got to help us, please, my God, you've got to help."
        His mother closes the door on the cold December air, and they lead him into the living room, one on each side of him, surrounding him with their love, touching him, their faces filled with concern and compassion. He is home. He is finally home.
        He does not remember the living room any more than he remembers his mother, his father, or the snows of his youth. The pegged-oak floor is more than half covered by a Persian-style carpet