What I Loved

to pat my back or take me by the shoulders and shake them as he told me about the children on a playground he had seen that afternoon and captured on tape. "I'd forgotten how loony little kids are," he said. "They're completely dotty."
    One afternoon in the middle of April, Bill suddenly started talking about the day he'd returned to Lucille to give their marriage one more chance.
    "When I walked through the door, the first thing I did was crouch down and tell Mark that I was never going away again, that we were all going to live together." Bill turned his head and studied the bed he had made for his son years ago. It was still standing in a far corner of the room not far from the refrigerator. "And then I betrayed him. I told him the usual rot—that I loved him but couldn't live with his mother anymore. The day the fifth letter came and I walked out the door, he started to scream 'Dad!' I heard him from the landing. I heard him all the way down the stairs, and I heard him in the street when I was walking away. I'll never forget his voice. He sounded like he was being killed. It's the worst thing I've ever heard."
    "Little children can cry like that over a candy bar or bedtime—anything."
    Bill turned to me. His eyes were narrowed and when he spoke his voice was low but incisive. "No, Leo. That's just it. It wasn't that kind of crying. It was different. It was horrible. I can still hear it in my ears. No, I chose myself over him."
    "You don't regret it, do you?"
    "How can I? Violet's my life. I chose to live."
    On the afternoon of May seventh, I didn't go to visit Bill. He didn't call me, and I stayed at home. When the phone rang, I was rereading a letter I had received from Erica a few hours earlier in the mail. The sentences I had been pondering were: "Something has happened to me, Leo. I've taken a step, not in my mind that's always been racing ahead of me, but in my body, where the pain has made it impossible for me to move, to go anywhere except in circles around Matt. I realized that I want to see you. I want to get on a plane and come to New York and visit. I understand if you don't want to see me, if you're fed up. I don't blame you if you are, but I'm telling you what I want." I didn't doubt Erica's sincerity. I doubted that her conviction would hold. At the same time, after I had read the words again, I thought she might really make the trip. The thought made me nervous, and when I lifted the receiver, I was still distracted by thoughts of Erica's possible decision to visit.
    "Leo?"
    The person on the line was speaking in an odd half whisper, and I didn't recognize the voice. "Who's calling?"
    For a second, no one answered. "Violet," she said in a louder voice. "It's Violet."
    "What's the matter?" I said. "What's happened?"
    "Leo?" she said again.
    "Yes, I'm here," I said.
    "I'm at the studio."
    "What's the matter?"
    Again she didn't answer me. I heard her breathe into the receiver and then I repeated the question.
    "I found Bill on the floor..."
    "Is he hurt? Have you called an ambulance?"
    "Leo." Violet was whispering now, slowly, methodically. "He was dead when I found him. He's been dead for a while. He must have died soon after he came in, because he still had his jacket on and the camera was on the floor beside him."
    I knew she had to be right but I said, "Are you sure?"
    Violet took a long breath. "Yes," she said. "I'm sure. He's cold, Leo." She had stopped whispering, but as Violet continued to talk in that foreign, uninflected voice, her composure frightened me. "Mr. Bob's been here, but now he's gone. I think I hear him praying." She pronounced every word carefully, enunciating each syllable as if she were working hard to say her piece exactly right. "You see," she continued, "I went to the train to pick up Mark, but he gave me the slip. I called the studio and left a message. I thought Bill was still out but that he'd be back by the time I got there. I was so pissed off at Mark, so furious, I needed to see Bill. It's funny, my anger doesn't mean anything now. I don't care. Bill didn't answer the buzzer, so I let myself in. I think that I must have cried out when I saw him, and that's why Mr. Bob came up, but I don't remember that. I want you to come here, Leo, and help me call whoever it is you're supposed to call when somebody dies. I don't know why, but I can't do it. And then when you've done it, I want to be alone with him again. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
    "I'm coming right