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judged the human Ewing—who only passed the ball to his teammates out of desperation or forgetfulness—to be the main reason the Knicks never won a championship during his tenure. Without stating our antipodal positions on the matter, we asked Harris what he thought of Patrick Ewing. He looked from one of us to the other and said, “Terrible” to me. To Carl he said, “Superstar.”
     
    One evening in the summer of 2007, Harris arrived at the Quogue house with Sammy and Jessie. Amy was slower coming in from the car with Bubs. The two older kids rushed in and Ginny and I greeted them on our knees with hugs and hollers. Belatedly, I realized that Harris was standing there too. I looked up. He said, “None taken.”
     
    Harris maintains control of his emotions, his household, his job, and his children, because he must. But occasionally the effort shows. One day a drinking glass shattered on the kitchen floor. I started to pick up the bigger pieces to make it easier to vacuum the smaller ones. He shouted at me to get out of the kitchen so that he could vacuum the floor by himself. He never shouts. It may be that the hand surgeon was concerned that I would cut myself, but, in that small crisis, it felt more that he was asserting his authority—not because of a lack of self-confidence, but rather as a way of holding his life together.
    Yet the presence of another man in his house who, like him, is accustomed to doing things his own way, cannot help but challenge his authority, even if I never actively challenge it. I do not wish to constitute one more source of pressure on him. And even if I felt the urge to put in my two cents, there would be little need, since he is capable of dealing with most mishaps. Only during the first week after Amy died did he rely on me to take the lead in managing the funeral and the burial. After that, one could almost see him physically steel himself and haul himself into shape. Always heavy though not fat, he must have lost twenty pounds in the past couple of months. He has cut down on coffee in the morning. To my regret, he has stopped eating toast.
    As with us all, sorrow frames his every activity, and Harris’s way of showing his feelings is to grow very quiet, as if closing a hatch. I tell him that if he ever wants to talk I am happy to do it. He appreciates the opening, but answers, “What is there to say?” Which is true, yet not entirely true. Catherine Andrews, the children’s psychotherapist, also sees adults in grief. My guess is that Harris will consult her sooner or later, probably later.
    I, too, may consult Catherine, since anger and emptiness remain my principal states of mind, especially when I am away from Ginny and the children, and alone in our house in Quogue. What keeps me from seeking Catherine’s help is that unlike other psychological problems, what happened to Amy, and to all of us, is real. The monster is real. And while there may be strategies that help Ginny and me feel a little better rather than a little worse, we will never feel right again. No analysis or therapy will change that. I think Harris knows this, too. He is used to being on his own, but he never could have anticipated the depths of his current loneliness. It hurts and confounds him. He may appear enigmatic because he now sees that the course of his life—not unlike Ginny’s—has prepared him to live without a main source of happiness, making him an enigma to himself.
     
    In a rare tranquil moment on a March afternoon, I sit on the green couch in the lower-level play area, rereading Anne Tyler’s The Accidental Tourist. It is around four-thirty, and the light has gone from the day. Jessie comes downstairs and asks why I am so quiet. “I’m reading,” I tell her. She takes one of her own books from the coffee table and sits beside me, extending her long legs over the front of the couch. We sit in silence, reading, five feet from where Amy collapsed and died. I look up from time to time,