In late October the weather changed noticeably. The days were cooling off, and the evenings and mornings bore a chill that made Hooper nostalgic for the east coast, for the smell of chimney smoke in the neighborhood and the brilliant explosion of gold, crimson, and pumpkin-colored leaves before the earth settled into its grays and white.

He used to like raking leaves. He liked the dry, scratchy noise it made, and the way that you gathered the leaves toward you rather than pushing them away. His mother had a compost pile, a pretty elaborate one, especially for city folk, with three sections for consecutive stages of decomposition, and since the mulch would eventually nurture the summer garden, dumping the leaves made him feel as though he were giving back to the earth. He didn't really mind shoveling snow, either, but he couldn't say he missed it. So many people neglected to shovel that it made even walking down the sidewalk, not to mention parking your car, a test of patience and skill.

The changing seasons were less obvious in the desert, but nevertheless they had a certain understated drama. One year it snowed in town, and he and Tillie drove out to the desert in the early morning to walk among the saguaro and ocotillo elegantly outlined in white. Spring had its parade of colors: in March the citrus trees blossomed, scenting whole streets; in April purple lupine and orange poppies covered Pacheco Peak; and by May the palo verde trees were loaded with clouds of bright yellow flowers.

Hooper had begun to appreciate that summer in the desert and winter in the snow belt had certain qualities in common. Both demanded that you pay attention to the maintenance of your house's furnace or cooler, to your body's risk of heatstroke or hypothermia and, not least of all, to beauty: the ice as it froze on twigs, encasing them in a skin of glass; ice as it froze over puddles, making them white-hard or clear or cracked, trapping air pockets and leaves. Desert creatures had their own coarse beauty, like lizards performing delicate push-ups in the back yard, fig beetles cloaked in metallic green iridescence, cicadas buzzing like band saws, mockingbirds dragging a wing in the dirt. In both climes, you moved differently, more slowly, whether in deference to the heat or the depth of the snow and the layers of clothes you were wearing. You understood that the world had extremes and challenges, but that they were not unbearable, not insurmountable. You were reminded, in fact, that you are alive.

Since the death of his parents, Hooper was often struck by such reminders. He was away at school in New Hampshire at the time, and when Tom called to tell him about the car accident, he was alone. All his housemates were out at a party, but he had stayed home to study for an exam in O. Chem, which he was close to failing. Taking a break from the books, he'd been dancing in the kitchen to the B52's, as though nothing was so important as being from Planet Claire, when the phone rang. He'd heard that some people have a delayed reaction to bad news, that it doesn't register with them for days, months, or even longer, but when he heard the whimper in Tom's voice he toppled like a sabot in a hurricane. He sat in the middle of the kitchen floor with both hands on the phone and cried, tears and snot dripping on his hand. At the other end Tom cried until he got hiccups, and they cried together for a long time without even saying anything. When they finally hung up, Hooper packed a bag, wrote a note to his friends, and drove all night on the New York Thruway.

So he missed a week of school. It seemed somehow pathetic, absurd even, that his parents had been killed and his world hardly skipped a beat. It was a wonder that this newly formed black hole didn't just suck him inside out, that his entire past, including school records and medical history, didn't just spontaneously disintegrate or burst into flames. He did fail his lab class, which was actually a kind of relief; at least he had that to show. He didn't want to return to school right away, but Tom persuaded him to go, saying that Mom and Dad would have wanted him to. It made sense—he had only a few weeks to finish up the semester—but he still wasn't sure. What he wanted to do was curl up in a little ball in his parents house and sleep for a week in his old twin bed with the blue-and-green-checked spread, but, numb as a jaw under Novocain, he wrote his papers, took his exams, and spent a miserable June with Tom and their aunts and uncles in Buffalo. After a month he had to get away; he went back to Portsmouth and picked up some odd jobs painting and mowing lawns, and felt like a ghost without a house to haunt. The following fall, though, he met Tillie, and even in his grief he recognized that he felt silly around her, that he planned jokes to tell her so he could hear her laugh—and that these were good signs.

Maria once told him about her niece who, when she was a toddler, ran around the house naked, shouting, “I'm lucky! I'm lucky!” He knew he was lucky. He had a good life: enough money and a charming house; good health; and above all Tillie for a partner. He should be turning cartwheels as he got out of bed, singing while he ate his breakfast. Should. Lately, though, his body simply filled up space while his mind drifted. He felt like a fraud, walking around in a human skin but not feeling much of anything, hope or pleasure, anger or confidence. It was as though his very shadow had disappeared. But indeed it had: with Cosmo. Is that what this was about, this monstrous funk, a dog lost five months ago? A dog. He would almost say, Just a dog, except that she was more than that. He'd certainly been a better person when she was around. He was ashamed for being so sad. He felt as though he'd let Cosmo down; hadn't he learned anything from her? He apologized to Tillie, but he couldn't explain himself and he couldn't shake it. Tillie didn't laugh as much as she used to, and he felt it was his fault. Sadness would descend and he'd sweep it away, but more came and he couldn't keep up.

Then he received another letter from Tom, inviting him to Buffalo for Thanksgiving. And he remembered how they used to fight over who got the last Coke or choose the TV show, and how Tom would try to steal the cookies out of his lunch sack, and he felt a great nostalgia for a time when he was happy and affectionate enough to rub Tom's face in the snow.

Nancy had been very persuasive about casting Richard, even after Hooper told her about his talk with Sally. He trusted Nancy's instincts, however; she had a keen eye for an actor's potential, whereas he would have been happy to give the major roles to some homeless people, the mayor, and a bunch of third graders if they expressed an interest. In fact, someday he'd do just that. At any rate, Richard had turned out to be one of the better actors they had cast in any production, in spite of his lack of experience.

Still, Hooper had misgivings. During rehearsals Richard had created some friction by turning that smug, derisive grin on the other actors, who complained in private to Hooper. When Hooper politely confronted him about it, Richard said he was just keeping in character. He had also shown up to rehearsals wearing clothes that matched Cindy's, the same color shirt and pants—not just once but three times. Another actor, Ben, quietly told Hooper that Richard had asked about his daughter, who was in high school, but whom Ben had never mentioned at rehearsals. Once Hooper could swear that Richard read his lines wrong just to tweak him, saying things like “My dog” instead of “My God.” Hooper stewed about it for days.

Finally he admitted to Tillie that he had the blues. This wasn't news to her. For weeks he had been dragging around like a snake with a gopher in its belly, and she didn't know what to do. She'd tried massaging his shoulders and scratching his head, leaving him alone, and making him laugh, but her efforts fell flat.

“I know the feeling. It's hard to get over sometimes.” She wasn't sure what to say. When she felt down, he would nag her to cheer up or list the many reasons she shouldn't feel that way. It rarely helped, so she couldn't bring herself to say the same. “You've been down for a while.”

Tillie felt as though she'd been thumped. She held her breath and no rational thought came, no angry words or even a mild defense. Without realizing it, she had been holding her toast, and now she squeezed it in her fist, lightly at first and then so hard that peanut butter and apricot jam oozed between her fingers.

“I'm sorry you feel that way. I didn't know.” She had nothing more to say. All those times he had comforted her, soothed her tears—was he just patronizing her? Did he privately resent it? If she was such an emotional drain on him, maybe she shouldn't stick around. Grabbing her purse from the bedroom, she headed for the front door.

He wanted to call her back or chase after her, but she was so determined that he wavered. He shut the door. A fine way to start the day, he thought. Clearing the table, he dumped his cereal and her toast down the disposal. He had planned to make a lunch and go about his business, but instead he sank to the kitchen floor, his back sliding down the cupboard door, his head in his hands.

Tillie was walking so fast she had plenty of time to get to work, and she went several extra blocks around the neighborhood. When had she ever been so angry? She had thrown tantrums as a kid, bashing her pillow on the bed and kicking stuffed animals around her room. Once she flung a hairbrush and broke a corner of a full-length mirror. Another time she tossed orange juice in her brother's face because he had called her Miss Nosey. And that was true: he was getting old enough to have secrets from her, and it upset her.

Her paced slowed. Maybe Hooper was right; maybe that's why his words hurt so much. She did tend to dissolve into tears whenever she tried to talk about something painful. Sometimes she didn't open up because she couldn't even identify her feelings to herself; it wasn't as though she purposefully kept things from him. She could see that he might hesitate to tell her certain things if he thought she couldn't deal with them in a mature way. She was dragging them down, then, keeping them from being more trusting, more intimate, more honest with each other.

She stopped short on the sidewalk. There you go again, she thought. Maddeningly, he was right. Any problem between them became an excuse for her to blame herself, to think poorly of her talents or her own worth. What had gone wrong this morning? It was not entirely her fault. They'd been trying to talk about him and his problems, and he deflected the discussion, twisting the issue. He said he didn't like talking about himself. What else was he keeping from her?

Crossing the street onto the university mall, she deliberately passed through the lawn sculpture called “Walking A's.” It looked more like a string of inverted V's, tall and skinny, connected as though cut from folded paper. They did seem to be walking, stork-like, as she passed, and their metallic colors shifted subtly through the rainbow. She continued on down the mall, greeted the groundskeeper stacking up the fallen palm fronds, and walked up the brick entryway into the library. Downstairs at her desk she was glad to see a big pile of work to keep her occupied. After a few hours of mindless filing and inputting, she had calmed down enough to call and leave a message. Although she was usually quick to apologize and try to placate, even if she didn't feel in the wrong, this time she merely said, “Hi Hoop. It's me.”

By the time Hooper finished the foothills job it was nearly noon. The morning's work of trimming the mesquite, adding new gravel to the drive, and raking the dirt around the saguaros had at least kept his mind off the argument with Tillie. It had also sharpened his hunger, and he decided that he would treat himself at a Mexican restaurant that Maria had recommended. Stopping at home for a clean shirt, he saw the light blinking on the phone machine and chose not to listen until later. The phone gave him an idea, though: he would invite Maria to lunch. Before he could have second thoughts, he looked up the number of the State Museum on campus, where she worked. He called; she was delighted. She would meet him out on the corner shortly.

As he drove up she was waiting, pretty in a cream-colored suit with a short skirt, her dark hair in a braid. He was glad he had taken the time to throw a clean sheet over the bench seat. Climbing in, smiling, she smelled strongly of perfume.

“Thanks. Just work clothes.” Settling back on the seat, she told him it felt good to be riding in a truck again, as she used to do with friends back home. Directing him to the restaurant, she chatted about her conflicts with the museum's chief administrator, making him sound more incompetent than he was. Hooper offered sympathy, which she accepted modestly, but with a twinge of self-satisfaction.

The restaurant was nothing much. There were a dozen or so white plastic tables and chairs, and service was at the counter. On the walls were some Mexican blankets and black velvet paintings of bullfighters and folkloric dancers. Maria looked strikingly out of place among the other people there—workers in dirty jeans and baseball caps, two older women with five small children—but she read aloud from the menu with great excitement and said a few words in Spanish to the young man taking her order.

Inspired by her enthusiasm, Hooper ordered far more than he knew he could eat, and insisted on paying. They took their beers, served in iced plastic mugs, to the table; then Hooper went back for chips. With each bite Maria tried to divine another ingredient in the salsa. By the time the food was ready, he had her laughing about a client who was such a Wildcat fan he had painted all the large rocks in his yard red. Red flags up his driveway, red trim around the windows, red trees, a red car. He exaggerated slightly, but it was so nice to hear her laugh; it made him feel more relaxed than he'd been in a long time.

They dug into their food, Maria exclaiming about the fresh cilantro and tomatoes, the ripe avocados. He hummed with pleasure. She especially liked the tamales, she said: they reminded her of the ones her mother and aunts used to make on Christmas Eve.

Barry sat on the edge of his futon, phone in one hand, a wad of tissues in the other. Donna's answering machine came on again. He'd been trying to call her for the last three days to tell her he had been sick, absurdly sick, with vomiting, diarrhea, the whole bit. This was this first time in a week he could even eat solid food, much less consider getting work done. When he thought about the reading and lab work piling up, the scads of freshmen reports he had to grade, he wanted to get back into bed and pull the covers over his head.

Donna would wonder why he hadn't called. After that night, his one evening out with her—an art film at the Loft, a coffee at Bentley's—he wanted madly to talk with her, but could never get her at home. He resisted leaving a message, but after two days of pressing the redial and looking every half hour for her car next door, he finally did. He immediately regretted it, for he sounded bumbling and foolish. And then he got sick. He hoped she hadn't gotten sick, because then she might blame him; she might regret those kisses, the mere thought of which made him feel weak.

Before they went on their date—he didn't like that word, it sounded so formal, but what else to call it?—he'd made sure his little house was clean, just in case, and had some Brazilian jazz ready to play on the stereo. After coffee he invited her to his house, and when she agreed he felt as though champagne were bubbling in his veins. They sat on the futon couch. Smiling, she reached over and took his braid, touching it to his cheek, his forehead, his ear. Hesitant at first, then playful, even passionate, they kissed. Her hands glided behind his neck, down his shoulders, across his thigh. There was the scent of her, something clean like clay or puppies; he caressed her black hair, lightly touched her breasts, and tickled the inside of her forearm.

Not enough. But he couldn't convince her to stay, and so many days had passed he thought he must have dreamed it all in his foggy-headed illness. Finally he left another message, his voice strained from disuse and desire, and fell back exhausted onto the unmade bed.

At the start of November, Nancy took over the direction of Hover, which was to open the same night Hooper left for the east. The opening would be a big occasion for the Stone Soup Theater: for the first time, they would open on a Saturday night. Their landlord, who was going out of town as well, had generously offered them the use of the theater before the Thanksgiving holiday. Ordinarily Hooper would have been thrilled for the greater exposure, but he was merely relieved to have this production off his hands.

Tillie shook her head and laughed: he knew very well why they hadn't. For one thing, she was saving her vacation time for their trip to Colorado in June; and for another, his ticket east had been quite expensive and nearly impossible to get. When he called for reservations, most of the flights were booked, and he had to lengthen his stay just to get a seat.

When his flight was called, they said good-bye with a fierce hug and a long kiss. He slung his backpack over his shoulder and shuffled along in line; she watched him hand over his boarding pass and go down the corridor. Waving one last time, he turned the corner and disappeared.

She got back in her car and drove home, feeling as though she had forgotten something. She had her wallet and sunglasses, all she had brought with her; it was only that the seat next to her was empty. At home she started a fresh pot of coffee, sat down while it brewed and stared out the window. Except for the gurgling of the coffee maker, the house was quiet—not unlike other Saturdays, when Hooper had rehearsal or a job, but this time she could not look forward to his coming home by dinnertime or sooner.

She was free for the day, since Ellen and Angela had stopped calling her for Saturday appointments. It was just as well, for they didn't really need her. Angela kept bringing her pictures of celebrities and asking Tillie to conjure up their hairstyles; she must have found someone else who would attempt the magic. Ellen, on the other hand, had decided to keep her hair short in a cut that lasted for a couple months.

She could write some letters, clean house, go to a movie, or wander the thrift stores. She ran through her options half-heartedly and gradually realized that she felt like painting. The desire was distinctly physical, like a craving for chocolate or french fries. Or like the powerful urge she still felt on some summer days to jump in a swimming pool or ocean, to be immersed in another medium.

She hadn't been swimming in years. She remembered the one summer she and Hooper went to the beach at Kittery Point in Maine. It was not her first time in the Atlantic Ocean, but it was her first time so much in love, and although the water was cold she didn't want to get out. Her body was like some other creature, buoyant and blurry, her skin luminous just under the surface of the water. The surf was rough from a recent storm and she dove under again and again, thrilled by the disorienting passage. When she caught her breath and found Hooper, she swam over and kissed him, and he tasted of salt.

Another Season