"It's now or never," she said. I sat back on the couch and watched the girl take her bra off. I wasn't ready for this. The last time I sat with a woman on a couch this close was when I was in Bristol with Mary Jane, and we were discussing a book cover by an unknown author.

~

It had been our first date. It was June and the wind was light on the bay and the smell of the sea had crept into the cottage and filled the room with its salty mist. Mary Jane lived in the cottage to protest her mother's enduring habit of frowning on all the boys she knew, but Mary Jane said I was the one.

"I won't go away," I said.

"I won't let you," she said.

I wasn't sure what she meant, but it really didn't matter. I was just happy to be with someone I could trust, even when her mother threatened to call the police and press charges of vagrancy and debauchery.

I was sitting on the couch with Mary Jane and she was convinced the new book she had picked out would be a bestseller. "It has pizzazz. It'll be number one," she said.

When I asked her to explain, she smiled and tapped my knee with her hand and I almost forgot my question. It was like swimming on a hot day; the cool water on your face, the sky a brilliant blue, and in the distance, you could hear the children building sand castles.

"What are you grinning about? I haven't told you why," she said.

"I know," I replied. "The way you touched me, I almost forgot who I was."

She smiled again, but this time with her eyes and she kept her hand on my knee, as if to tease me . . .to lure me into a more meaningful relationship.

I slapped her hand away playfully and asked her how she knew the book would be a bestseller. She sat back and looked me over as if my face was a tea leaf.

"Don't look at me like that," I said.

I got up from the couch and walked out on the porch. The lights across the bay fell on the sea like a spray of stars. I could hear the waves bracing the rocks with their cool white fingers. I stood in the dark and tried to figure out what I was doing there. Me, a bum, who never held a job longer than a year. A college drop out. I ran out of funds, I'd say. What crap! What lies?! All I wanted to do was write. Be a poet. Write something profound. Another piece of crap! And there I was with this gorgeous woman and I didn't know what the hell to do about it. I told myself, she's filthy rich. Isn't that what you always wanted? A benefactor? Money bags?

Suddenly, her arms were around my waist and I couldn't turn to look at her. She squeezed me and said, "Lovely night, isn't it?"

"Yeah," was all I could come up with.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing. Everything is fine."

"Tell me the truth," she said.

"You don't know me that well," I said.

"I will if you let me," she insisted with another squeeze, and turned me around to face her. Her blue eyes were like patches of sky. For a moment I felt like I could jump into them. I held her in my arms. Then she kissed me.

~

The girl held out the bra like a token or an invitation.

Finally, she dropped it on the floor. "What's the matter, sweetie? Don't you like what you see?"

I looked for blue skies, but she looked at me through dull copper pennies.

"Don't you like me?" she said and stepped out of her panties. They were silky black with glimmering red hearts sewn into the seams.

"How old are you?" I asked. She didn't look much older than nineteen.

"Does it matter? Anyway, I'm old enough to know what I'm doing. Do you want it or don't you?" She folded her arms across her chest and tapped a tiny foot on the plush, green hotel carpet.

I began to unbutton my shirt.

"Now you're singing, daddy-o." She smiled with ruby lips and began to untie my shoes.

I laughed. "I haven't heard that in a long, long time."

"Don't you ever watch the classics?" she asked, looking up at me.

I laughed again, a little louder than I expected.

She shot up and began surfing the green carpet. "Beach Blanket Bingo. You know, Annette and Frankie? They were the greatest."

I felt tears on my cheeks. I blinked when I saw her staring at me.

"Bad memories?" She came over to me and sat on the couch. She brought her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them.

"I hate the fall too," she said.

I don't know if it was the sound of her voice or the way she was looking at me, but at that moment I felt as if we had known each other for a long time, and like a friend, she had decided to drop by and talk for a while before going home.

"It makes me feel lonely, when I see the trees empty," she said. "They look so cold out there." She was looking out the sliding glass doors.

I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and went to the glass doors.

"Please, don't," she said.

We stood for a moment looking at the skyline. Dusk had settled into Providence--lights were going on, and commuters going home. Then I looked at the leaves that had fallen on the verandah. Their bright reds and yellows reflected in the living room light. At that moment, I thought of Mary Jane and how all those years had fallen like autumn leaves through my hands.

"What's your name anyway?" I asked.

"Maria," she said. "It's been a long time for you, hasn't it?"

I nodded. She winked.

The next morning, Maria was still beside me, sleeping. Her legs were bunched up under her elbows. Her small hands. I hadn't noticed her hands last night. The way they had touched me: soft, reassuring. And her lips, while she slept, curved into a smile. I had never seen a woman sleeping with a smile on her face. When I touched her spine, the bones felt brittle under the soft white skin.

I let her sleep. I didn't want to wake her and have to talk this early in the morning.

I didn't want her to go.

When she awoke, I was in the living room reading the paper. The Patriots had lost to Miami again, the Bristol Harvest Dance would be held on Tuesday night, and Mt. Hope Bay was full of oysters. I put the paper down and said good morning. She had pulled the lavender sheet off the hotel bed and had it draped over her shoulders and held it tightly, bunched up in her hands. She plopped down on the chair next to me and crossed her legs.

I asked, "Have you ever been to a Harvest Dance?"

"No."

"Would you like to go?"

"No."

"It'd be fun. I'd like to take you."

"Why?"

"You've never been."

She laughed. "So, I've never been to San Francisco either."

"Come on, it'll be fun."

"Are you kidding me? You really want to take me to one of those things?"

"Sure, why not? Unless . . . you don't want to be seen with an old man like me."

She laughed and pecked a kiss on my cheek.

~

November winds swept up from the sea and gripped the trees with their large hands and shook the red-veined leaves which fell with a dry, crackling voices.

Mary Jane and I walked along Hope Street. The wind tugged at our coats. We walked past the high school and I could hear the helmets crashing and the crowds cheering, and see the breath plumes wafting in the cold air above the stadium.

"I won't go," she said.

"Why not?" I asked.

"You can't make me go if I don't want to go," she said. The wind stung her face red.

"Why won't you go?" I asked again.

"Why do you want me to go? It's so silly. I hate those things."

She placed a cold hand into my pocket. We walked slowly, the leaves piling up about us. We kicked them and sent them spinning in the air.

She buried her head in the folds of my coat.

"It's so cold," she said.

I lifted her chin. "I want to show you off. Is that so bad?"

We walked the rest of the way in silence.

As we approached the cottage, I could smell the cold waters off the bay. The wide lawn was smothered in fall colors. It was so quiet here on the other side of town. Colder here among the sparse houses. Poppasquash Road: the rich and secluded. And here I was across the bay with Mary Jane, asking her to go with me to the Harvest Dance: in town. What the hell was I thinking? They would always look at her differently, especially with me. But isn't that why you want to show her off? To prove something. To be somebody.

At the door, I took my gloves off and held her. The smell of the sea was in her hair. I kissed her. I felt like a Judas when she said, "If you want me to go, I'll go."

"You don't have to," I said.

"I know," she said.

I walked home. The sky was cold and fading.

~

"I'm going down to the lobby to get cigarettes," I told Maria. "Call room service and order breakfast. A bagel and cream cheese for me and order whatever you want for yourself."

She squeaked a smile and fluttered her eyelashes. "Can't we go back to bed?"

"After breakfast," I said. "Now be a good girl and call room service."

As I slipped out the door, I heard her say, "Hi, this is Mr. Markes's room and we want something to eat."

We ate our food and went back to bed. I lay with my head propped on double pillows and I smoked a cigarette while she lay next to me with her head under my arm. She spoke with her lips on my chest. The sound of her voice rumbled inside me. "Are you mad at me because I said I wouldn't go with you?" she asked. I was surprised by her question. I wondered why it would matter to her if I was mad or not.

Perceptions, Mary Jane had once told me. It's all a matter of perceptions.

"No," I said, "I'm not mad at you."

Then she giggled. "Your stomach sounds like a volcano."

I smiled and put the cigarette out. She went to her knees, placed a leg over my waist, and sat on my stomach. "You know something, Mr. James Markes?" she said and fell forward with her hands bracing the bed on either side of me. Her hair whispered on my face. "I like you." Her eyes were brown, big and glistening. Her breath smelled like oranges.

"I like you too," I said.

Suddenly, she jumped off the bed and ran into the bathroom. I heard the water running and then a series of yelps and loud curses. A few minutes later she was standing at the door with a large lavender towel wrapped around her chest. Her skin was steaming. Black mascara tears stained her cheeks. She walked over to the side of the bed and dropped the towel. She was shivering when she said, "I . . . have nothing . . . to wear."

After Maria left, I dressed and went outside on the deck. City lights sparkled in the cold November air. She'd said she couldn't stay the night. "It's work," she said, "nothing personal. But I'll be back," she assured me. "I will, I promise." She kissed my cheek and scampered out the door. Her hair was still wet.

I listened to the wind make a mournful sound against the building. The cars below looked like insects with glowing eyes. I didn't think much about where Maria was going, but I wanted her to come back. Then I went down to the lobby and stopped at the desk. The kid behind the counter had short brown hair and a thin mustache. His eyes were leaky brown.

"My name's James Markes and I'm in room--"

"I know, room 615."

"I see."

"I've read all your books, Mr. Markes."

"Thanks."

"Oh no, thank you."

"Okay, well, um, yes, I'll be back in about an hour."

"Should I have her wait in the lobby, sir?"

For a moment, I wasn't sure what he'd said. "I'm sorry, but I . . ."

"The young lady, sir, should I have her wait . . ."

"Yes . . . no, I mean she has a key." I felt a sudden heat light up my face. The boy looked down at the counter and began shuffling papers.

"Very well, sir," he said. Then I went outside and hailed a taxi.

"Where to?"

"Just drive," I said. "Just drive around for a while."

"Sure, sure, whatever you say."

I came back after an hour. The same kid was behind the counter.

"Mr. Markes," he said, "she came in a few minutes ago."

"Thanks," I said.

Heading toward the elevator, I caught his hand from the corner of my eye, waving a yellow note at me.

"Mr. Markes," he cried. "I have a message for you."

I read the note on the way up to my room. It was from my mother. I tried calling you several times, but they said you were living in Europe. Call me. Mrs. Evelyn Markes. P.S. I'm so, so sorry. I read the P. S. several times until my head ached. I couldn't think why she would say that. As far as I knew, my father was still alive. The elevator doors opened and I just stood there as they closed. Finally, I opened the doors and walked out into the corridor. I read the note a second time. I'm so, so sorry.

In my room, Maria was on the floor, wearing one of my sweaters and laughing at the program on television. She didn't hear me walk in. I was glad she didn't. I went into the bedroom, sat on the edge of the bed and dialed my mother's number.

"Hello."

"It's me," I said.

"Who?"

"Jim."

"Oh Jim . . . I'm sorry. I was expecting a call from Bill Pardo. You know Bill, he used to cut the lawn."

"Yes, I know who he is."

"So, how was Europe? I don't know how you can eat the food they serve in those foreign countries."

"Mom."

"They're so greasy. They're full of fat, and God knows what else they put in those dishes."

"Mom?"

"Did you meet anyone interesting?"

"Mom, I got your message."

"Oh, I'm sorry dear, it's just that I haven't heard from you in such a long time. You know your father is in Silverlake now. He hates the food and . . ."

"Christ! Do you mind if I talk for a minute?"

"Of course not, dear."

"What was that P.S. about?"

"B. S.?"

"No, the P. S., I'm so, so sorry. Remember?"

"I thought that's why you were here."

"Why I'm here?"

"Yes . . . I thought you knew. My God, you don't know, do you?"

"Know what? What am I supposed to know?"

"Oh my."

"Christ."

"It's Mary Jane . . . she . . ."

"She's what, Mom?"

"Mary Jane died three weeks ago. Jim? Jim, are you there?"

~

The summer sky was a scalding blue, and Mary Jane and I were sitting on the white sand dunes on the Cape. We watched the sea pour blue on the sand and the sun make a crazy spiral toward the horizon.

At sunset, a flock of seagulls began landing on the beach. We watched them prance across the sand and pick at litter with their hard yellow-white beaks. The gulls kept landing in front of us and all around us. We heard their wings slapping the air.

"Aren't they magnificent?" she said.

Later, as the sky began to darken, the seagulls raced across twilight, their wings stretched into thin black lines. The air began to cool. Winds swept across the water, carrying wet mists over the abandoned lighthouse on Provincetown Point. I wrapped the large beach towel around us.

We stayed that way for awhile. Suddenly, she turned to me and placed her hands on my face. Her hands were warm.

"Jim?"

~

I found myself standing in the living room listening to Maria's laughter. I don't remember if I hung up the telephone or not. I walked to the sliding glass door and opened it. The air was cold on my face. I leaned on the railing and watched the darkness roll with the wind. I was glad that Maria was here tonight. Glad for the noise. Just the noise would be enough.

The next day, I rented a car and drove to Bristol. Twenty-three years was a long time but nothing had changed. Hope Street was still the same. The gutters were jammed with autumn leaves. The maple trees were golden and arched across the road to the center of town. I remember when I was six, my father raking the leaves into tiny hills on the sidewalk in front of our house and lighting them with a match. I remember him leaning on the rake and smoking a Camel cigarette and wearing the brand-new fall jacket mother had bought him at The Outlet Store in downtown Providence.

I drove to where the trees ended and the sea began. The bay was empty. Only a few skiffs dotted the shore, tied to dark deep-rooted pilings. I turned into an abandoned parking lot. There used to be a small seafood place here that sold clam cakes and chowder. Mary Jane and I used to come here quite frequently back then. She used to say she loved the clam cakes. She never ate them. She would sit beside the sea grass and throw tiny morsels at the seagulls. Now it was a shack boarded up with a sign: For Lease or Rent.

I got out of the car, buttoned my coat and walked to the edge of the lot. The town had built a bike path where once long, yellowing green reeds stood as a buffer between the road and the bay. The water was navy blue with white caps chaffing the surface. I stared across the bay, to where Mary Jane once lived. Where I once lived. Six years of my life.

She can't be dead.

I can still see her standing on the wide green lawn, wearing a white summer dress, waving her hand in the air as if she were painting the sky. I was stretched out on the lawn watching her, when she said, "Where would you like me to put the sun?"

"Just below your shoulders."

"There." She tipped her head back until her nose touched the edge of a cloud. "How does it look?"

A brisk breeze blew up from the bay and slapped her hair. A fistful of blond swept across her face. She ran over to me and sat on my stomach. Her hands pinned my shoulders to the grass. I looked up into the shade of her hair. "You call that a sun?" I laughed. "It looks like a deflated red balloon."

She bit the edge of my nose playfully.

"You creep."

~

I stood huddled in my coat, trying to remember the sound of her voice. The salt from the sea stung my face. I watched a couple of seagulls settle on the aft of the skiff in front of me. Their wings beat listlessly as they pecked at invisible scraps.

When I reached the hotel, the sun was a red disk, flat against the sky.

I stopped at the desk. I had three messages: one from my publicist, one from Brown University, and one from Maria. I read Maria's first. In the message she said she'd be at the hotel about six.

After my shower I sat on the couch and read the other two, then threw them on the coffee table and lit a cigarette. I watched the sky fade into dusk and suck all the light from my room.

As I lit another cigarette, the door opened, the lights went on, and Maria stood in the room with an arm full of bags, which she dropped emphatically on the floor. Then she huffed and dropped to her knees and cursed her weary arms.

"Doesn't this hotel have any busboys?" Her cold red cheeks blew out a sigh.

"What's all this?" I asked, touching the bags.

"I bought you some real clothes," she said. Then she smiled and began opening the bags, throwing shirts and pants and a sweater with a row of deer dashing across a snowy plain. She opened all the bags except for one, which she clutched in her hand.

"And what's that?"

"It's a secret." She jumped up and ran to the bedroom. "You'll see tonight."

"Maria, I have plenty of clothes."

"They smell like Europe," she shouted from the bedroom.

She walked back in and said, "You know, old."

She put her arms around me and kissed me lightly on the cheek.

"I can't stay too long," she said.

"Maria--"

"That's not my real name. My real name is Magdalena."

"Magdalena?"

"Yeah, but everybody was calling me Maggie. I hate that name. So I changed it to Maria."

I got up and sat on the couch. "Should I order dinner?"

"No, I'll just catch something on the way," she said and sat on the coffee table. She took her coat off and dropped it on the floor. Her legs were wrapped in woolen socks to her knees. "So, how was your trip to Bristol?" she asked.

"It's still the same," I said.

"And your parents?"

"I didn't see them."

"You miss her, don't you?"

Her eyes were like amber in the light. I wanted to say something to her eyes, but I felt my throat tighten.

I lit another cigarette.

"Why did you leave?"

~

I saw the sky's black face mirrored on the bay as Mary Jane walked up from the shore. I waited for her on the porch. As she approached, her eyes were blue shadows in the moonlight and her hands were wet from the sea. She brushed her fingers across my lips. I could smell the salt as she touched me. "Don't say anything," she said. "Let's just sit and not say anything."

I listened to the crickets. They were hiding in the long tufts of grass at the edge of the lawn.

It was a long time before she spoke again. "How long will you be gone?" she asked.

"I don't know," I said. "I don't know."

I got up from the porch and walked out on the lawn. I didn't want her to touch me. I walked further down where I could see the sailboats anchored in the harbor. A few of them had their lights on. I could hear them lurch in the water and the rigging slapping the sides of the boats. The lights from their cabins rippled on the ebony surface. Then I felt her arms around my waist and her face on my shoulder. I thought at that moment I'd have the right words to tell her how I felt, but there were no right words or wrong words or any words that could have changed anything. I was leaving, and that's all there was to it.

Christ, Mary Jane, don't you see I have to go? I've got to write. I've got to experience the world and I can't do it here. Not like this. But I didn't speak. My back was to the sea. I let the crickets have their say. She just let me go and I walked away.

~

"I always thought I'd see her again," I said. The ashtray was full of cigarettes. I didn't remember smoking all of them. Maria was putting her coat on and standing, facing the door. Then she tipped her head back. Her hair fell on her shoulders like a dark waterfall. "Do you have a photograph?"

"No."

"Too bad." She opened the door.

"Maria, would you turn the light off?"

I heard the door shut and the muffled patter of feet walking down the corridor. I sat back and closed my eyes. I saw Mary Jane standing near the water painting the bay blue with her hands.

~

The next day I visited the cemetery. The graveyard was a hall of trees. At the entrance there were two tall, white columns holding up a black, wrought-iron gate. Years of ivy wound around the columns in a tight weave of dead leaves and brittle vines. The gate was open, so I walked in. Shafts of sunlight fell between the tall oaks and weeping willows, and long ropes of light fell on the graves, on me.

I watched my shadow run into the tombstones, the vested flowers and the American flags.

So many dates. So many names.

I left Maria in the car. I didn't ask her to come. I left it up to her. I had opened the door and said I'd be right back. Her mouth began to open, but instead she just touched my coat as I slipped out of the door.

My mother said Mary Jane was buried near the brook. I walked slowly along the embankment. The brook was dry and full of dead acorns and twigs and dull, smooth stones.

~

I ran across the lawn. My hair was long and whipped across my face. I slipped and slid on the morning dew toward the shore, shouting, "Mary Jane! Mary Jane!"

I saw her squatting at the edge of the shore, digging for clams. It was low tide. She was bent over a muddy hole and water kept seeping into it. Behind her, the rocks were dark green and slimy and across the bay, sailboats were still huddled in the morning mist.

She looked up when I approached and brushed rebel strands of blond away from her eyes. "You're up early," she said. "I was going to surprise you."

"Look at this," I shouted. I gave her the letter I had clutched in my hand. She stood, slipped the gloves off and read the letter. She was barefoot and the mud oozed between her toes. Suddenly, she screamed and flung her arms around me. "You did it. You did it," she repeated over and over. "You did it. You did it."

I held her and swung her in the air. When I let go, she stared at me as if my face were something new.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked.

"I couldn't," I said.

"But why?"

It was the first time I had seen her cry. I stood and watched her with only one thought in my head . . . to take back the last few moments and start over again. This time I wouldn't run across the lawn. I wouldn't shout her name. I would approach her quietly and sit near her and watch her hands disappear into the black water and smile when her hands reappear, dripping with clams.

"Jim, why didn't you tell me?"

She was sitting on a large rock, as the sun burnt the mist from her shoulders. She never made a sound or wiped the tears from her eyes. She let the sun do it.

She never once looked at me. Instead, her eyes stared at the murky hole she had dug.

~

I don't know how long I stood staring at the headstone. My hands were stiff and turning red. My ears stung. I blew into my hands and rubbed them. I stamped my feet. The sun had disappeared by now and had left the sky an empty, gray shell. I heard bells ringing from St. Mary's church and saw a squirrel dash beyond the brook, its mouth swollen with nuts. I remembered Mary Jane kneeling on the grass in the back of the cottage. She was holding a bag of peanuts in her hand and a timid squirrel was standing on its hind legs, teasing her with its shyness.

Why didn't I tell her? Because I wanted to show her that I didn't need her. I could do it on my own. Pride. Goddamn it. Pride.

Her tombstone was a pale reflection of the sky. I heard the wind in the trees and read her name out loud.

By the time I left, the air had that familiar wet smell like just before a downpour. Then I stopped by the gate and looked back. I let the wind do what it pleased with my coat. And wondered if it was cold enough to snow.

* * *

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