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Claire for the first time in years. You come face-to-face with death and you need to talk about it. You need to be needed, to be stroked, to be told that someone cares.
    I fixed a vodka with ice and sat on the sofa in the den. I fumed and pouted because I was alone, then my thoughts switched to the six hours I’d spent with Mister.
    TWO VODKAS later, I heard her at the door. She unlocked it, and called, “Michael.”
    I didn’t say a word because I was still pouting and fuming. She walked into the den, and stopped when she saw me. “Are you all right?” she asked with genuine concern.
    “I’m fine,” I said softly.
    She dropped her bag and overcoat, and walked to the sofa, where she hovered over me.
    “Where have you been?” I asked.
    “At the hospital.”
    “Of course.” I took a long drink. “Look, I’ve had a bad day.”
    “I know all about it, Michael.”
    “You do?”
    “Of course I do.”
    “Then where the hell were you?”
    “At the hospital.”
    “Nine of us held hostage for six hours by a crazy man. Eight families show up because they’re somewhat concerned. We get lucky and escape, and I have to catch a ride home with my secretary.”
    “I couldn’t be there.”
    “Of course you couldn’t. How thoughtless of me.”
    She sat down in a chair next to the sofa. We glared at each other. “They made us stay at the hospital,” she began, very icy. “We knew about the hostage situation, and there was a chance there could’ve been casualties. It’s standard procedure in that situation—they notify the hospitals, and everyone is placed on standby.”
    Another long drink as I tried to think of something sharp to say.
    “I couldn’t help you at your office,” she continued. “I was waiting at the hospital.”
    “Did you call?”
    “I tried. The phone lines were jammed. I finally got a cop, and he hung up on me.”
    “It was over two hours ago. Where have you been?”
    “In OR. We lost a little boy in surgery; he was hit by a car.”
    “I’m sorry,” I said. I could never comprehend howdoctors faced so much death and pain. Mister was only the second corpse I had ever laid eyes on.
    “I’m sorry too,” she said, and with that she went to the kitchen and returned with a glass of wine. We sat in the semidarkness for a while. Because we did not practice communication, it did not come easy.
    “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.
    “No. Not now.” And I really didn’t. The alcohol mixed with the pills, and my breathing became heavy. I thought of Mister, how calm and peaceful he was, even though he waved a gun and had dynamite strapped to his stomach. He was thoroughly unmoved by long stretches of silence.
    Silence was what I wanted. Tomorrow I would talk.

Four
    T HE CHEMICALS worked until four the next morning, when I awoke to the harsh smell of Mister’s sticky brain fluid weaving through my nostrils. I was frantic for a moment in the darkness. I rubbed my nose and eyes, and thrashed around the sofa until I heard someone move. Claire was sleeping in a chair next to me.
    “It’s okay,” she said softly, touching my shoulder. “Just a bad dream.”
    “Would you get me some water?” I said, and she went to the kitchen.
    We talked for an hour. I told her everything I couldremember about the event. She sat close to me, rubbing my knee, holding the glass of water, listening carefully. We had talked so little in the past few years.
    She had to make her rounds at seven, so we cooked breakfast together, waffles and bacon. We ate at the kitchen counter with a small television in front of us. The six o’clock news began with the hostage drama. There were shots of the building during the crisis, the mob outside, some of my fellow captives hurriedly leaving when it was over. At least one of the helicopters we had heard belonged to the news station, and its camera had zoomed down for a tight shot of the window. Through it, Mister could be seen for a few seconds as he peeked