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rural, not suburban. Snow turned the lots into fields, and the windows of occupied homes glowed like small fires.
    But then I came across a street with the lights on—a row of double-deckers, with front porches and big bays, new siding. Trees, at regular intervals, lined the strip of lawn between sidewalk and road, and cars stood parked along the curb. Probably I’d be living somewhere like this. Robert told me he had a place picked out.
    If you looked closely you could see boarded windows and broken steps, but there were also satellite dishes and washing lines, trash cans waiting for collection and kids’ bikes on the stoops. There weren’t any street lamps, though, and when the sun went down behind the trees and telephone poles, I felt about as lonely as I ever have in my life. After pulling to the side of the road, I checked the route to Robert’s house by the light of the glove compartment. I didn’t want to show myself in a parked car.
    IT WAS ONLY FIVE MINUTES away, but east of Van Dyke the neighborhood changed character. The houses got bigger and turned from clapboard to stone; the gardens spread out. I saw a private security vehicle making the rounds. It waited on the other side of the road while I rolled into Robert’s drive, which had an electric gate—part of a tall metal fence, topped by spearheads.
    I had to step out of the car to announce myself by intercom. This was the first time I’d been out of the driver’s seat since lunch. The air smelled good and cold; it smelled of wood-fire smoke. And when the gate swung open, the security vehicle moved on.
    Three other cars sat in the drive. I parked behind a Lexus. The house itself was stuccoed and painted yellow, lit up from below by spotlights planted under the hedges, which grew under the windows. The windows were taller than me, and arched, and there were lots of them. I don’t know much about American architecture, but the style looked like something from the 1920s and reminded me of what Robert had said over the phone. It suggested “good times.” I pushed the bell and heard it jangling—my heart beat faster than it should have.
    Robert was changing for dinner when I got inside. The maid let me in, or maybe the cook, since she hurried afterwards back into the kitchen.
    The entrance hall had a grand piano in it, covered in photographs and invitations. I looked at the photos for a minute and didn’t recognize anyone in them. There were teenage girls and family portraits, pictures of holidays and weddings, but the cards were mostly addressed to Mr. Robert James. From the Rotary Club of Detroit and the Mayor’s Office, from the Ford Foundation and the editors of Time Inc. There were also a number of private invitations: “Mr. and Mrs. David Koerning request the pleasure of your company,” etc. Nobody else came down.
    On one side an opened door led to a living room, and I noticed someone on the couch, reading a newspaper. He stood up when I walked in and shook my hand.
    “Tony Carnesecca,” he said. “I guess you’re one of Robert’s college buddies.”
    “That’s right.”
    “It’s like a fucking reunion around here.”
    There was a fire in the fireplace and a decanter of wine on the side table, with several glasses.
    “What do you mean?”
    Tony was smiling and showing his teeth, but I think he wanted to offend me, too. He offered me a glass of wine.
    “What I really need is to take a leak,” I said. He pointed the way, and when I came back in, Tony was still on his feet; he gave me a drink.
    “If this is a reunion,” I said, “what are you doing here?”
    “Because I grew up in the city and actually know what’s going on in this place. Even if I didn’t go to Yale.”
    Tony had the forearms of a short man who lifts weights; he wore the kind of T-shirt that would show them off. Maybe he was my age or a few years older. His hair had gel in it and was carefully presented—a working-class white man’s haircut. In fact, he was a