Michael’s mouth crimps into a smile. He is mystified by these young men who volunteer themselves for the armed forces, who willingly put themselves in harm’s way—not necessarily through love of country or desire to serve, but in some kneejerk rebellion or plain lack of direction. He supposes that legions of youth have lazily ricocheted into service to their country this way; there is a reason the armed forces target the young, after all.
Michael looks back to the party, singles out the boy’s father. What has that man done, he wonders, to drive his son to war? Rather than thinking of his own sons—immersed in battles on athletic fields to the exclusion of all else—he reflects on his own teenage years. Whereas this boy seems driven by muscle and instinct, Michael’s body had adopted the features of manhood while slouched indoors on a stained basement couch, day after sunlit day, playing Atari. He would choose a single game and flog it single-mindedly until he had conquered every level. More than shooting aliens out of the sky, he’d gleaned the greatest satisfaction from climbing the cubes of a pyramid and strategically making them change color. He believes that the addictive pleasure of repainting those squares and standing at the summit each time—a squat little creature with a tubular nose, invincible—may have tinted his worldview in some permanent way.
He and the boy loiter in silence. Michael scrapes his mind for another question, something to keep the kid standing here. He is not sure why, but he does not want the boy to move away. Perhaps there is something Michael could teach him, if they hit on the right vein.
As they stand together watching the mingling herd on the far side of the pool, Michael spies a woman in white—tall, long-haired—he hadn’t noticed before. He feels a tingling begin at the tips of his ears, hears a ringing. He takes out his glasses and finds the woman through their lenses. At once, he identifies the coppery hair in its licentious cascade. The dress is too long for a cocktail party, too much like a bridal gown, or the robe of a ghost. Only Diana would make this mistake. He sees the resolute smile on her face as she makes her way along the edge of the crowd, near the lip of the pool. The reflection of her dress accompanies her, an ice floe on the water. At the other end of the pool stands Rosalie, in animated chatter. Michael feels a gelid lump in his chest, which drops swiftly into his groin. The ice radiates, freezing him in place. He watches the space between the white figure and his wife shrinking. It is a disaster beyond any he might have concocted. About to happen.
There is no drill for this. He runs through the obvious actions first—interception by foot or by water—but sees that he cannot run around or swim across the pool in time. Shouting would do nothing. He stands in place, feeling the chill ascend to his head. The tinkle and chatter of the party is amplified as if it were taking place inside his skull. A switch flips. His hand goes to the inner jacket pocket and finds the pistol grip. There is a dreamlike feeling as he slides the weapon out and exposes it to the air, as if revealing his genitalia. His thumb releases the safety, his arm lifts, and the barrel points to the sky.
The shot is followed by a pixel of silence. The faces turn toward him. Diana stops. Then the screams of women. The next moment, he is on the ground, gasping dirt, a weight like an anvil rammed into his spine. Through the thrum of blood in his ears comes an underwater confusion of faraway shouts and near, beastlike panting. His vision is blackened, reduced to the tight study of grass roots. The smell of the soil through his crushed nostrils holds the deepest and darkest of messages, the raw beginning of things.
He feels the gun being taken from his hand. His white shirt, he thinks dimly, will be streaked beyond rescue. The anvil leaves his back, but a stabbing pain remains. Perhaps a broken rib, or worse. He lies still for a moment, a rare thing. For a moment, he postpones whatever will come next, clutching a peculiar bead of gratitude for this small respite, this fleeting breath of defenselessness. Finally, he is being helped up. Two men, one on either side of him, grip his arms and pull him to his feet.
“What the hell was that about?” one barks.
It hurts Michael to straighten his back, but he does it. “Nothing, nothing,” he murmurs. “Just having a little fun. Just making fireworks, you know?”
He does not recognize the men from the party. Security, maybe. Christensen is wiser than he thought.
There is another figure, a polo shirt. Michael meets the teenage boy’s eyes, bright with fear or exhilaration. “I-I’m sorry,” the boy stammers. “I mean, I’m sorry if I hurt you.”
Michael stares. Beneath the polo shirt, the boy’s chest is broad, the torso tapering to a muscular abdomen. His arms are athletic without being sinewy. His face is radiant from exertion. The stabbing pain returns to Michael’s ribs.
“What’s your name?” he gasps.
The boy swallows. “Mason Hatfield, sir.”
Michael nods, keeps nodding.