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and gorgeous, bleeding at the horizon like a burst egg yolk.
    On both sides of the river fireworks erupted. Fourth of July: the American holiday celebrating gunfire, rockets, aggression, death to the enemy.
    Across the river on the east bank of the Hudson, in the vicinity of Tarry-town, gaudy pinwheels of crimson, gold, blinding-white light were rising, soaring and falling soundlessly into the river. And a moment later replaced by more explosions, gaudy glittering colors rising, sinking soundlessly to extinction. “Stop. Stop. Stop .” This idiotic celebration, at a time of death.
    As if in mockery of a man’s death. Even in Jones Point, where death awaited her. Lurid bright carnival colors pitching up into the now-darkening sky over the river. Exploding yellow calyxes, crimson eyeballs, Middle Age: A Romance
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    streamers of rainbow guts. Hideous, hellish. Marina recalled that fireworks are jokey symbols of sexual orgasm, and the thought repelled her.
    Never us. And now never .
    In her state of suspended shock she located the Jones Point Medical Center. Not a large facility. Parked her car, and ran to the rear entrance.
    She was breathless, breathing through her mouth. As, on their hikes in Eagle Mountain Preserve, Adam had cautioned her never to do. Inside, in a brightly lit lobby, Marina was met by strangers who’d clearly been awaiting her. She heard her name—“Marina Troy?” She who was the friend of Adam Berendt. These people not known to Marina, a half dozen of them, yet a crowd, introduced themselves as “friends”—“new friends”—of Adam’s, organizers of that day’s fund-raising cookout. (Fund-raising cookout? ) Marina stared at these individuals, wordless. A weepy woman in her forties, raw-eyed, in a very young halter-top sundress with a shawl draped over her shoulders, dared to call Marina “Marina” and to embrace Marina’s stiffened shoulders as if they were two women linked by mutual loss; as if Marina Troy’s shock and mounting horror were to be so easily shared.
    “Marina, we are so very very very sorry .” Marina, breathing through her mouth, pushed away, managing not to scream.
    The Thwaites were not present. Marina was spared knowing of Thwaite until a later hour.
    The next several hours would pass like a delirium dream of distortions and quick dazzling cuts.
    “Marina Troy? You’re here for Adam Berendt? Please come with us.”
    Escape! Marina was being led away from the guilty-faced “friends” in sports clothes, one of whom managed, as she’d discover afterward, to slip into her hand the keys to Adam’s car. What had Adam to do with these people, why hadn’t he told her about them, a Fourth of July cookout in Jones Point? Had that awful woman been one who’d adored and pursued him? Marina was trembling with fury, at them and at Adam for his poor judgment. Wasn’t it like him! Impulsive, impetuous! A young man in hospital whites and an older Asian-American woman who’d looked upon Marina sympathetically were leading her to the morgue for the viewing and identification, and they spoke softly to Marina, preparing her for the ordeal (was this a fixed script? though Marina had never heard it before, she seemed somehow to recognize it) but Marina was having difficulty comprehending, nor was she in this breathless blinking-eyed state aware of the shiny corridors through which she was being taken; an elevator
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    entered, and exited on a lower floor. Underground? “Adam? Adam! ” She had only a vague awareness of someone speaking aloud. Possibly it was her. Wiping her nose on the edge of her hand. Rummaged in her purse but couldn’t find a clean tissue, God damn. And God damn why was it so cold here? While outside the air was warm and heavy as an expelled breath.
    Couldn’t stop shivering. Adam had commented, sometimes on their hikes, Marina’s fingernails turned blue, she must have low blood pressure, was she anemic? and