"Stew? What the fuck do I know about stew?"

  Chester tried to stand, and the fist drove him down again.

  "First tell me why you came here. Who told you about my business?" But as the man lifted his fist, he seemed to lose both strength and will. The amoral eyes became unfocused. The fight was visibly leaking out of him.

  Another voice fell from an ever higher place.

  A familiar voice, it said with ease and purpose, "I know a recipe. Rectums and testicles in a sweet plum sauce."

  There was a long, long pause. Then Evelyn said, "If you hurt him, I'll cut your balls off. Do you understand?"

  The knife was resting between the man's legs. Judging by the long blade, it had spent years moving from garage sale to garage sale, rusting and dulling along the way, but never losing its capacity to menace.

  "I know how to use knives," she told the man, working the blade even closer. "I can butcher you in two minutes. Believe me."

  Both men nodded, taking her at her word.

  Absolutely.

  There were an astonishing number of questions that Chester didn't ask in the next hour. Evelyn drove, and he just sat, mute and exhausted, struggling to come to terms with a revelation that he couldn't have predicted and with which he could never, ever come to terms.

  It was Evelyn who finally spoke. Quietly, but with determination and a certain chilliness, she told him, "When we married, we promised not to ask about our pasts. It was your idea, as I remember. You said that we'd probably done things that we regretted, bad things that were childish and maybe even unforgivable. And I don't know what secrets you have, but if you think about it, very carefully, you'll see that you still don't know anything about my secrets, either. Nothing substantial. Just guesses pulled out of a damned box that I honestly thought was lost. Lost, and gone." A pause. "Some stupid little box full of words on paper. Nothing else. Someone else's words, but you don't need to know whose. Do you hear me ? Are you listening? For God sake, say something to me, Chester... !"

  "Like what?" he whispered, nothing audible over the rumble of their truck's old engine.

  Evelyn was crying. A woman of rare emotions, she made quite a sight, driving with both hands on the wheel and her face wet and her voice struggling to remain in control. "When, when, when have I ever disappointed you? Ever? Just point and say, 'Here you were a bad wife. You were an awful person. On such-and-such occasion, you showed me an evil side.'"

  He couldn't point to a day, or even a moment, when anything resembling evil had emerged from his wife.

  With a jerk of the wheel, she pulled onto the shoulder, put the truck into neutral, then said, "You drive. I'll walk around and give you time... and if you want, just drive on..."

  He said nothing, watching her open her door and step down.

  Watching her slam the door shut.

  Chester scooted in behind the wheel, pushing in the clutch and placing his right hand on the gear shift. Then he waited, watching her in one mirror, then the other; studying her as she slowed, then stopped, obviously giving him every chance to leave her. He put it in gear, and he drove.

  Backing up eight feet, he opened the passenger door and said, "Come on. There's an auction starting at noon. If we speed, we can just about make it."

  She stood in the sun, giving him a wary look.

  "What kind of auction?" she asked.

  "You never know," Chester replied. Then after a minute, with a grim resolve, "That's the fun in them."

  ROBERT REED

  THE SHAPE OF EVERYTHING

  THEY COULDN'T FIND HIM. The party had just become a party, tame scientists

  finally imbibing enough to act a little careless and speak their minds, every

  mind happy, even ecstatic. That's when someone noticed that the old man was

  missing. To bed already? Just when the celebration had begun? But someone else

  mentioned that he never slept much, and it still was early. And a little knot of

  technicians went to his cabin and discovered that he wasn't there, precipitating

  a good deal of worry about his well-being. The next oldest person in the

  observatory was barely seventy -- young enough to be his granddaughter -- and

  almost everyone feared for his health. His strength. Even his mind. Where could

  he be? they asked themselves. On a night like this . . . of all nights . . . ?

  Search parties began fanning through the facility, and the security net was

  alerted. Cameras watched for a frail form; terminals waited for his access code.

  But wherever the man was, he wasn't visible or working. That much was certain

  after an hour of building panic.

  It was one of his assistants who finally found him. She was a postdoc and maybe

  his favorite, although he was a difficult man to read in the best of times. What

  she did was recall something he'd mentioned in passing -something about the

  cleansing effects of raw light -- and she remembered a certain tiny chamber next

  to the hull, built long ago and never used by the current staff. It had a window

  to the outside, plus old-style optics, an old-time astronomer able to peer into

  a simple lensing device, examining the glorious raw light coming straight from

  the giant mirrors themselves.

  She found him drifting, one hand holding him steady, the long frail body looking

  worn out in the bad light. It looked even worse in good light, she knew. Bones

  like dried sticks and his flesh hanging loose, spotted with benign moles too

  numerous to count. The cleansing effects of light? She'd always wondered where a

  committed night-owl had found time and the opportunity to abuse his skin. More

  than a century old, and the postdoc felt her customary fear of ending up like

  him. Lost looks; diminished energies. And she wasn't an authentic genius like

  him. No residual capacities to lean against, the great long decline taking its

  toll --

  "Yes?" said the astronomer. "What is it?"

  She cleared her throat, once and again, then asked, "Are you all right, sir? We

  were wondering."

  "I bet you were," he replied. Only then did he take his eye off the eyepiece,

  the haggard face grinning at her. "Well, I'm fine. Just got tired of the noise,

  that's all."

  She didn't know how to respond. Leave now? Perhaps she should leave, if he

  wanted quiet.

  But when she turned, he said, "No," with force.

  "Sir?"

  "Here. Come see this."

  As always, she did as she was told. She kicked across the room and used a single

  eye, knowing the trick but not having done this nonsense in years. Why did

  anyone bother with lenses? Even when this observatory was built, digitized

  images were the norm. The best. And besides, what she saw here was just the

  focused light from a single mirror -- a representative sampling of the whole --

  meaning it was almost useless to their ongoing work. Too simple by a factor of

  ten million. Yet she wasn't the old man's maybe-favorite for nothing, feigning

  interest, squinting into the little hole until he seemed satisfied.

  "It's the same as last time," he said, "and the time before. It's always the

  same, isn't it?"

  She looked at him, nodding and saying, "Why shouldn't it be?"

  "But doesn't it amaze you?" He asked the question, then he spoke before she

  could answer. "But not like it amazes me. Do you know why? Because you grew up

  expecting to see the beginning of time. When you were a little girl, this place

  was catching first light with its first mirrors, and by then the goal was

  obvious. Isn't that right?"

  A little nod, and she thought of what was out there. It did amaze her, yes, and

  what right did he have to minimize her feelings? But it wasn't exactly the

  beginning of time either. She remembered the digitized images, scrubbed clean by

  computers, contrasts added and the noise deleted. She could see little blobs of

  spiraling light-- the earliest galaxies -- and the best images resolved

  individual stars. No, it wasn't fair of him to claim a greater amazement. Not

  when she thought of the work she'd done, the long hours and the years invested

  in helping him and everyone else, a great mystery now solved, more than likely

  --

  -- and the old man was laughing almost gently.

  Was it a trick? A joke? Had he been teasing her? It wouldn't be the first time,

  of course.

  "No, I'm not laughing at you, dear." He smiled, implanted teeth too white to be

  real. "I'm the amusing one. I look at you and remember someone else. Please,

  please don't take this wrong but you've always reminded me of her."

  He's been drinking, she realized. At least a little bit.

  "A young woman, but she seemed infinitely old at the time. Seventeen years old,

  give or take, and nearly as beautiful as you. And the first woman I ever loved."

  She said nothing.

  "Can I tell you about her? Let me, then you'll be free to go back to the party.

  I promise. It's just a little story, a slice of life tale. I know you don't want

  to hear it --"

  "Not true," she heard herself blurt.

  " -- but indulge me. For a few moments, please."

  Of course. She held the eyepiece in one hand, feeling the residual heat left by

  his hand and knowing she had no choice. This was a duty, perhaps even an honor.

  Nodding she looked out the thick window, watching half a dozen mammoth mirrors

  hanging motionless against the starry background, collecting photons from near

  the beginning of time . . . helping to support the theory that he, in part, had

  formulated . . . .

  "I was eight years old at the time."

  The woman's imagination strained, picturing him as a boy.

  "Forever ago," he said, "or yesterday. Depending on how you count these things."

  His parents sent him to a day-camp in the country, and he still could remember

  waiting for the yellow bus that picked him up at the corner. It was a noisy,

  stinking bus full of loud kids, and he always sat alone near the front, as close

  to the driver as possible. The driver was authority, and he believed in

  authority when he was eight. He thought it was important not to make enemies or

  get into trouble. A lot of the kids were older and larger, a few of them almost

  thirteen, and they seemed dangerous. It was the same as school -- the same as

  all life, he imagined-- survival depending on being quiet and small, keeping in

  the shade of authority whenever possible.

  His parents meant well. To them, the camp was a peaceful retreat with docile

  horses, a spring-fed swimming pool and a staff of smiling well-scrubbed adults.

  At least the brochures promised as much. The truth was that the horses were

  fatty and ill-tempered, and the pool's water had a suspicious odor. The staff

  were teenagers, one particular fellow holding sway over the others. His name was

  Steve or something equally ordinary--a fellow almost big lean and strong in a

  haphazard youthful way. He wore Western clothes, complete with a cowboy hat, and

  he smoked and chewed tobacco every waking moment. His greatest pleasure in life

  was bossing around children. It was Steve who introduced the future astronomer

  to horseback riding and archery, plus a variety of games learned from a stint

  with that quasi-military organization, the Boy Scouts of America.

  One afternoon, on a whim, Steve divided the kids into pairs and said, "This is a

  tracking game. Shut up and listen." The miles were transparently simple. One

  person walked from a starting point, heading for the nearby trees, and every

  time he or she changed direction, two sticks had to be laid down, making an

  arrowhead to show the new direction. It was a race in time, and it shouldn't

  take long. Steve promised to sit on the porch of the main lodge, drinking beer

  and keeping track of the minutes. "And when you're done," he promised, "we'll go

  down to the pool and you can take your daily pees in the deep end. All right?

  All right!"

  The astronomer's partner was maybe a year older, a boy both confident and bold,

  and he went first, vanishing into the green woods while Steve counted down five

  minutes. "Go!" He remembered running hard, reaching the woods and cool shadows,

  then pausing to let his eyes adjust, eventually spotting his partner in a little

  clearing uphill from him. The boy was kneeling in sunlight, setting a pair of

  sticks into position. Catching him meant walking a straight line. "That's not

  fair!" the boy protested. "You've got to follow the arrows!" And as if to prove

  his hard work and correctness, he took the astronomer back to each arrow,

  pointing to them with a barely restrained fury.

  The other teams took longer. Once done, everyone reassembled, and Steve, using a

  fancy Boy Scout knife to open a new beer, said, "Five minutes head start. Set.

  Go!"

  "And play fair," warned the astronomer's partner. "Or else!"

  Of course he'd play fair. He believed in rules and authority. Yet he had an idea

  on his run to the woods -- a legal possibility-- kneeling in the shade and

  pointing his first arrow in a random direction. Then he started to jog, heading

  uphill without varying his direction. The rules were being met, after all. The

  other boys and rare girls were behind him when the five minutes were up. He

  didn't pause, barely even slowed, and eventually it felt as if he'd gone miles.

  He was utterly alone, and only then did he kneel and make a second arrow

  pointing ninety degrees to his first course. It was a big arrow, and the rules

  were more than satisfied.

  Time passed. The angle of the sun changed. After a while he didn't feel sure

  about any directions, or even his approximate position. Some places looked

  familiar --perhaps they'd passed here on horseback -- but other places resembled

  virgin forest. What if he couldn't find camp before the bus left? What if he had

  to spend tonight in the wilderness? Angry with his own cleverness, he turned and

  pushed straight up a likely hillside, right through the heart of thorny brush

  and into the open green ground above the lodge, no sight ever so lovely in his

  long little life.

  Walking downhill, he imagined the celebration accompanying his return. But

  instead of relief, he found Steve sitting on a folding chair beside the mossy

  pool, a swimming suit instead of jeans but the hat and beer in place. Steve's

  response was to belch, saying "Look what drug itself in, would you? We were

  thinking of getting up a search party. But I guess you mined that fun too. Huh?"

  The astronomer's partner was even less understanding "What happened to you?" he

  squealed. "You cheated! I knew you'd cheat!"

  The lone sympathetic voice came from the life guard's chair. Her name was Wendy.

  She had a pretty face tanned brown, a nose whitened with cream and big

  sunglasses hiding her eyes. Wendy was easily the nicest person on the staff, and

  when he walked past her, she made a point of saying "I was worried. I thought

  you might be hurt."

  "The kid's fine," Steve shouted. "Don't make a big deal out of it, Wendy, Jesus

  Christ!"

  "And," she said, "I don't think you cheated. I don't."

  She looked at Steve while she spoke, her face strong and unperturbed, and he

  felt there was something between them. He tasted it in the air. There was an

  understanding, real and precious. She glanced back down at him, the white nose

  shining. "You are all right, aren't you?"

  "I'm fine."

  "Good," she said emphatically. "I'm very glad."

  MEMORY EXPANDS what's important and what is strange, and that's why his memories

  of day-camp seemed to cover months, not just a single week. Every day was rich

  with adventures and horrors, his young body sore every night and his parents

  curious in a careful way. Was he enjoying himself? They had to hear that their

  money was well spent. But can a young boy know if he's having a wonderful time?

  He had never been to camp; he had no basis for comparisons. Maybe it was his

  fault that he wasn't having great fun. "Oh, I like it," he told them, wanting to

  please. His parents smiled. Was he making any new friends? He thought of Wendy.

  Nobody else. But instead he mentioned his partner in the tracking game, which

  again pleased his audience, Mom and Dad nodding and grinning congratulating

  themselves for sending him to that piece of Hell.

  It was Thursday when Wendy reminded everyone, "Bring your sleeping bags

  tomorrow, and a change of clothes too." It was a day-camp, but the last day --

  Friday -- reached into Saturday morning. They'd eat dinner here and camp

  outdoors, then ride home in time for the late morning cartoons.

  "We'll sleep up on the hill," Steve told them. "Coyote bait in baggies. It's

  going to be fun!"

  "Quiet," growled Wendy. "Don't say that stuff!"

  Steve grinned, stained teeth capable of a menacing air. "They know I'm kidding,

  girl. They're smart kids. Hell, they love me. Everyone loves me, Wendy. 'Cept

  you. Ever think why?"

  She just shook her head, turning away.

  Next morning, at first light, the astronomer woke and found himself hoping to be

  sick. He looked for a nameless rash, for any excuse not to go. But there were no

 

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