Anna has not worn clothes since the funeral. Most days the cotton tunic and a long underskirt are enough; sometimes she wears her nightgown all day. Tonight the black evening dress chafes against her skin, like a winter sweater on sunburn. Anna stays at the bar, sipping her fourth gin and tonic, invisible to the glittering couples in the ballroom. Her husband, Tom, has visited her twice, stealing sips from her drink, taking deep breaths as he surveys the room. He does not try to persuade her to join him there in the ballroom. He knows she will say no. He is to receive an LA Lawyers Pro Bono Award for negotiating a lease for a halfway-house run by a local priest and reformed gang-members. She had not wanted to come.

  "Just for an hour, Anna."

  "Why? The partners won't notice if I'm there or not."

  "Not for the partners. For the kids."

  "The gangsters?"

  "Reformed gangsters."

  "Okay. One hour."

  She can see Tom in the ballroom, an elegant female associate at his elbow, Father O'Connor jubilant beside him. Tom shakes hands, smiles, is in control. He has never lost control. Not even when their world exploded into anguish at 8:31a.m. on a Saturday morning five weeks and six days ago when Anna picked up the phone to hear a police officer's voice say, "I am very sorry to tell you, ma'am, that your son Robert . . ." After an enormous whoosh when the air was sucked out of the universe, she screamed and screamed until Tom took the phone out of her hand. The officer's words resonate in her head every day. She wonders if her screams echo in Tom's mind.

  "You plan to hide out in the bar all evening?"

  James Dempsey drapes his long body onto the stool next to her. He is an attractive young black man they'd befriended when he was a summer clerk struggling with the corporate world. He is a hotshot associate now, trying hard to make partner. James is wearing a custom suit, a sharp white shirt, and his hair is cropped in tiny curls. He looks polished, a glowing ebony jewel.

  "Hi, James. Not all evening. I guess I have to be at the table when they make the award. Then I hope we can just slide on out."

  He takes her hand.

  "Not getting any easier for you, Anna?"

  "No. It's not."

  She swallows the tears. He notices and squeezes her hand.

  "Tom doing better?" he asks.

  "Tom has admirable self control. And a stiff upper lip."

  They both look over at Tom, still holding court in the center of a group. A stereotypical urban lawyer, Anna thinks, even to the hair graying uniformly at the temples.

  James cannot resist a small smile.

  "The manly way," he says.

  "Is that what it's called?"

  "Yep."

  "What's the womanly way?" she asks. "Tears?"

  "Tears are fine, Anna. You're in pain."

  "Yes," she says. "Pain. You know, Robert's death hurts more physically than his birth did. Physically."

  Anna knows she is talking too much, four drinks are hurtling around her blood stream, but she cannot stop.

  "It's like someone took a knife and just scooped out everything - scraped out your heart, your guts. Hollowed you out. Left you raw. We are the hollow ones, now, Tom and I. All scooped out." She looks helplessly at James. He reaches out and puts on arm around her shoulder.

  "It's grief, Anna. It's normal."

  "But if I'm normal, what's Tom? I can't move, and he can't stand still. He's working twelve hours a day."

  "That's maybe his way. He did great work for this project, Anna."

  "I know that."

  A young black man, with a shaved bullet head, an earring, a solid buffed body in a sharp double-breasted suit, stops beside them, stares at James.

  "Wassup brother," he says levelly. James grins.

  "Well hey, Chiller. You here to support the boys?"

  "Man, I am here to receive my award. I am a fucking recipient."

  James knows this but pretends surprise.

  "Well, I'm looking forward to seeing that. I will be cheering."

  "Damn right. You better be cheering, bro'."

  Chiller swaggers off. James, still smiling at the reformed gangster, turns back to Anna.

  "We should get to the table."

  The award ceremony begins immediately, while people are still eating, which means, Anna notes gratefully, that it will be over sooner. She is having difficulty swallowing. When Tom's name is called, he accepts the small plaque with a simple thank you, bowing graciously and Anna applauds with the others. But there is some whispering between Tom and the MC and Tom returns to the podium again. Tom is smiling as he takes the microphone.

  "Well, I also get to present an award this evening. And it's a big honor for me. It's to a young man from Compton. While we were negotiating contracts, doing the easy stuff like the paperwork, a group of kids out there were working fifteen hours a day, painting, rebuilding, fixing. Making it safe. Making it home. The leader of that group is Chiller."

  Chiller heads towards the podium and Tom begins to read from the card he was handed.

  "I am proud to present this award to Robert . . ."

  Tom falters, stares at the card in his hand. His face is ashen. Anna's heart leaps with shock. How can this be? Robert is a blue-eyed, smiling teenager. A boy with chestnut hair and freckles like her own. There is a hush in the ballroom. Chiller turns, frowning. Tom begins again. He says the words carefully now, with rigid deliberation.

  "To Robert Kennedy Washington, AKA Chiller."

  The applause is deafening. Chiller, grinning, takes the silver trophy and waves it at the audience, holding both arms above his head like a prizefighter. Tom looks over at her and Anna sees that the ice has splintered, the armor shattered and fallen away. His eyes are bleak as they meet hers. Then he looks away, staring into an impossible future.

  In the car, he is silent.

  "There is a magic in a name," she says quietly. "The Indians knew that."

  "I know," he says.

  He glances at her and swallows. She thinks again that she can feel her heart breaking.

  Once home, he says he is going to bed. She understands this. Understands well the need to burrow and hide. She pulls on her nightgown then makes tea, taking it to him as if he were an invalid. He sips it then looks at her strangely, as if he is embarrassed.

  "Do something for me?"

  She nods.

  "Lie on me."

  She hesitates.

  "Just lie on me. Flat. So I'm weighted down. Nothing else."

  She climbs into bed and lies down on him, her head reaches his shoulder. His body is cold at first. She can hear his jagged breathing.

  "That Okay?"

  "Yes," he says. "That's fine."

  So Anna lies quite still, weighting him, anchoring her husband to the warm earth, as his tears dampen her hair.

* * *

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