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〃Dirt is dirt。〃
〃Not when it's mine。〃
Bee appeared at the end of the hall wearing a silver and red kimono。 Just stood there； distant and pale。 There was a moment in which our locus of pettiness and shame seemed palpably to expand； a cartoon of self…awareness。 Denise muttered something violent to Steffie through the crack in the door； then went quietly to her room。
In the morning I drove Bee to the airport。 Rides to airports make me quiet and glum。 We listened to news updates on the radio； curiously excited reports about firemen removing a burning sofa from a tenement in Watertown； delivered in a background clamor of ticker…tape machines。 I realized Bee was watching me carefully； importantly。 She sat with her back against the door； her knees up； held tightly together； arms enfolding them。 The look was one of solemn passion。 It was a look I did not necessarily trust； believing it had little to do with pity or love or sadness。 I recognized it in fact as something else pletely。 The adolescent female's tenderest form of condescension。
On the way back from the airport； I got off the expressway at the river road and parked the car at the edge of the woods。 I walked up a steep path。 There was an old picket fence with a sign。
THE OLD BURYING GROUND
Blacksmith Village
The headstones were small； tilted； pockmarked； spotted with fungus or moss； the names and dates barely legible。 The ground was hard； with patches of ice。 I walked among the stones； taking off my gloves to touch the rough marble。 Embedded in the dirt before one of the markers was a narrow vase containing three small American flags； the only sign that someone had preceded me to this place in this century。 I was able to make out some of the names； great strong simple names； suggesting a moral rigor。 I stood and listened。
I was beyond the traffic noise； the intermittent stir of factories across the river。 So at least in this they'd been correct； placing the graveyard here； a silence that had stood its ground。 The air had a bite。 I breathed deeply； remained in one spot； waiting to feel the peace that is supposed to descend upon the dead； waiting to see the light that hangs above the fields of the landscapist's lament。
I stood there； listening。 The wind blew snow from the branches。 Snow blew out of the woods in eddies and sweeping gusts。 I raised my collar； put my gloves back on。 When the air was still again； I walked among the stones； trying to read the names and dates； adjusting the flags to make them swing free。 Then I stood and listened。
The power of the dead is that we think they see us all the time。 The dead have a presence。 Is there a level of energy posed solely of the dead？ They are also in the ground； of course； asleep and crumbling。 Perhaps we are what they dream。
May the days be aimless。 Let the seasons drift。 Do not advance the action according to a plan。
20
Mr。 Treadwell's sister died。 Her first name was Gladys。 The doctor said she died of lingering dread； a result of the four days and nights she and her brother had spent in the Mid…Village Mall； lost and confused。
A man in Glassboro died when the rear wheel of his car separated from the axle。 An idiosyncrasy of that particular model。
The lieutenant governor of the state died of undisclosed natural causes； after a long illness。 We all know what that means。
A Mechanicsville man died outside Tokyo during a siege of the airport by ten thousand helmeted students。
When I read obituaries I always note the age of the deceased。 Automatically I relate this figure to my own age。 Four years to go； I think。 Nine more years。 Two years and I'm dead。 The power of numbers is never more evident than when we use them to speculate on the time of our dying。 Sometimes I bargain with myself。 Would I be willing to accept sixty…five； Genghis Khan's age on dying？ Suleiman the Magnificent made it to seventy…six。 That sounds all right； especially the way I feel now； but how will it sound when I'm seventy…three？
It's hard to imagine these men feeling sad about death。 Attila the Hun died young。 He was still in his forties。 Did he feel sorry for himself； succumb to self…pity and depression？ He was the King of the Huns； the Invader of Europe； the Scourge of God。 I want to believe he lay in his tent； wrapped in animal skins； as in some internationally financed movie epic； and said brave cruel things to his aides and retainers。 No weakening of the spirit。 No sense of the irony of human existence； that we are the highest form of life on earth and yet ineffably sad because we know what no other animal knows； that we must die。 Attila did not look through the opening in his tent and gesture at some lame dog standing at the edge of the fire waiting to be thrown a scrap of meat。 He did not say； 〃That pathetic flea…ridden beast is better off than the greatest ruler of men。 It doesn't know what we know； it doesn't feel what we feel； it can't be sad as we are sad。〃
I want to believe he was not afraid。 He accepted death as an experience that flows naturally from life； a wild ride through the forest； as would befit someone known as the Scourge of God。 This is how it ended for him； with his attendants cutting off their hair and disfiguring their own faces in barbarian tribute； as the camera pulls back out of the tent and pans across the night sky of the fifth century A。D。； clear and uncontaminated； bright…banded with shimmering worlds。
Babette looked up from her eggs and hash browns and said to me with a quiet intensity； 〃Life is good； Jack。〃
〃What brings this on？〃
〃I just think it ought to be said。〃
〃Do you feel better now that you've said it？〃
〃I have terrible dreams；〃 she murmured。
Who will die first？ She says she wants to die first because she would feel unbearably lonely and sad without me； especially if the children were grown and living elsewhere。 She is adamant about this。 She sincerely wants to precede me。 She discusses the subject with such argumentative force that it's obvious she thinks we have a choice in the matter。 She also thinks nothing can happen to us as long as there are dependent children in the house。 The kids