eached the corner I shouted it again。 It was the one thing I couldn't get past； it was stuck in my throat like a chicken bone。 'I saved your life！ Your goddam life！'
She paused at the corner and turned back to me。 The terrible smile was still on her face。 'No；' she said。 'You didn't。'
Then she went on around the corner。 I haven't seen her since； although I suppose I will。 I'll see her in court； as the saying goes。
I found a market on the next block and bought a package of Marlboros。 When I got back to the corner of Madison and Fifty…third； Fifty…third had been blocked off with those blue sawhorses the cops use to protect crime…scenes and parade routes。 I could see the restaurant； though。 I could see it just fine。 I sat down on the curb； lit a cigarette； and observed developments。 Half a dozen rescue vehicles arrived…a scream of ambulances； I guess you could say。 The chef went into the first one； unconscious but apparently still alive。 His brief appearance before his fans on Fifty…third Street was followed by a body…bag on a stretcher…Humboldt。 Next came Guy； strapped tightly to a stretcher and staring wildly around as he was loaded into the back of an ambulance。 I thought that for just a moment his eyes met mine； but that was probably my imagination。
As Guy's ambulance pulled away； rolling through a hole in the sawhorse barricade provided by two uniformed cops； I tossed the cigarette I'd been smoking in the gutter。 I hadn't gone through this day just to start killing myself with tobacco again； I decided。
I looked after the departing ambulance and tried to imagine the man inside it living wherever ma？tre d's live…Queens or Brooklyn or maybe even Rye or Mamaroneck。 I tried to imagine what his own dining room might look like； what pictures might be on the walls。 I couldn't do that； but I found I could imagine his bedroom with relative ease； although not whether he shared it with a woman。 I could see him lying awake but perfectly still； looking up at the ceiling in the small hours while the moon hung in the black firmament like the half…lidded eye of a corpse； I could imagine him lying there and listening to the neighbor's dog bark steadily and monotonously； going on and on until the sound was like a silver nail driving into his brain。 I imagined him lying not far from a closet filled with tuxedos in plastic dry…cleaning bags。 I could see them hanging there like executed felons。 I wondered if he did have a wife。 If so； had he killed her before ing to work？ I thought of the blob on his shirt and decided it was a possibility。 I also wondered about the neighbor's dog； the one that wouldn't shut up。 And the neighbor's family。
But mostly it was Guy I thought about； lying sleepless through all the same nights I had lain sleepless； listening to the dog next door or down the street as I had listened to sirens and the rumble of trucks heading downtown。 I thought of him lying there and looking up at the shadows the moon had tacked to the ceiling。 Thought of that cry…Eeeeeee！…building up in his head like gas in a closed room。
'Eeeee；' I said 。 。 。 just to see how it sounded。 I dropped the package of Marlboros into the gutter and began stamping it methodically as I sat there on the curb。 'Eeeee。 Eeeee。 Eeeeee。'
One of the cops standing by the sawhorses looked over at me。 'Hey； buddy； want to stop being a pain in the butt？' he called over。 'We got us a situation here。'
Of course you do； I thought。 Don't we all。
I didn't say anything； though。 I stopped stamping…the cigarette pack was pretty well dead by then； anyway…and stopped making the noise。 I could still hear it in my head； though； and why not？ It makes as much sense as anything else。
Eeeeeee。
Eeeeeee。
Eeeeeee。
THAT FEELING； YOU CAN ONLY
SAY WHAT IT IS IN FRENCH
Floyd； what's that over there？ Oh shit。
The man's voice speaking these words was vaguely familiar； but the words themselves were just a disconnected snip of dialogue； the kind of thing you heard when you were channel…surfing with the remote。 There was no one named Floyd in her life。 Still； that was the start。 Even before she saw the little girl in the red pinafore； there were those disconnected words。
But it was the little girl who brought it on strong。 'Oh…oh； I'm getting that feeling；' Carol said。
The girl in the pinafore was in front of a country market called Carson's…BEER； WINE； GROC； FRESH BAIT； LOTTERY…crouched down with her butt between her ankles and the bright…red apron…dress tucked between her thighs； playing with a doll。 The doll was yellow…haired and dirty； the kind that's round and stuffed and boneless in the body。
'What feeling？' Bill asked。
'You know。 The one you can only say what it is in French。 Help me here。'
'Déjà vu；' he said。
'That's it；' she said； and turned to look at the little girl one more time。 She'll have the doll by one leg； Carol thought。 Holding it upside down by one leg with its grimy yellow hair hanging down。
But the little girl had abandoned the doll on the store's splintery gray steps and had gone over to look at a dog caged up in the back of a station wagon。 Then Bill and Carol Shelton went around a curve in the road and the store was out of sight。
'How much farther？' Carol asked。
Bill looked at her with one eyebrow raised and his mouth dimpled at one corner…left eyebrow； right dimple； always the same。 The look that said； You think I'm amused； but I'm really irritated。 For the ninety trillionth or so time in the marriage； I'm really irritated。 You don't know that； though； because you can only see about two inches into me and then your vision fails。
But she had better vision than he realized； it was one of the secrets of the marriage。 Probably he had a few secrets of his own。 And there were； of course； the ones they kept together。
'I don't know；' he said。 'I've never been here。'
'But you're sure we're on the right road。'
'Once you get over the causeway and onto Sanibel Island； there's only one；' he said。 'It goes across to Captiva； and there it ends。 But before it does we'll e to Palm House。 That I promise you。'
The arch in his eyebrow began to flatten。 The dimple began to fill in。 He was returning to what she thought of as the Great Level。 She had e to dislike the Great Level； too； but not as much as the eyebrow and the dimple； or his sarcastic way of saying 'Excuse me？' when you said something he considered stupid； or his habit of pooching out his lower lip when he wanted to appear thoughtful and deliberative。
'Bill？'
'Mmm？'
'Do you know anyone named Floyd？'
'There was Floyd Denning。 He and I ran the downstairs snack bar at Christ the Redeemer in our senior year。 I told you about him； didn't I？ He stole the Coke money one Friday and spent the weekend in New York with his girlfriend。 They suspended him and expelled her。 What made you think of him？'
'I don't know；' she said。 Easier than telling him that the Floyd with whom Bill had gone to high school wasn't the Floyd the voice in her head was speaking to。 At least； she didn't think it was。
Second honeymoon； that's what you call this； she thought； looking at the palms that lined Highway 867； a white bird that stalked along the shoulder like an angry preacher； and a sign that read SEMINOLE WILDLIFE PARK； BRING A CARFUL FOR 10。 Florida the Sunshine State。 Florida the Hospitality State。 Not to mention Florida the Second…Honeymoon State。 Florida； where Bill Shelton and Carol Shelton； the former Carol O'Neill； of Lynn； Massachusetts； came on their first honeymoon twenty…five years before。 Only that was on the other side； the Atlantic side； at a little cabin colony； and there were cockroaches in the bureau drawers。 He couldn't stop touching me。 That was all right； though； in those days I wanted to be touched。 Hell； I wanted to be torched like Atlanta in Gone With the Wind； and he torched me； rebuilt me； torched me again。 Now it's silver。 Twenty…five is silver。 And sometimes I get that feeling。
They were approaching a curve； and she thought； Three crosses on the right side of the road。 Two small ones flanking a bigger one。 The small ones are clapped…together wood。 The one in the middle is white birch with a picture on it； a tiny photograph of the seventeen…year…old boy who lost control of his car on this curve one drunk night that was his last drunk night； and this is where his girlfriend and her girlfriends marked the spot …
Bill drove around the curve。 A pair of black crows； plump and shiny； lifted off from something pasted to the macadam in a splat of blood。 The birds had eaten so well that Carol wasn't sure they were going to get out of the way until they did。 There were no crosses； not on the left； not on the right。 Just roadkill in the middle； a woodchuck or something； now passing beneath a luxury car that had never been north of the Mason…Dixon Line。
Floyd； what's that over there？
'What's wrong？'
'Huh？' She looked at him； bewildered； feeling a little wild。
'You're sitting bolt…upright。 Got a cramp in your back？'
'Just a slight one。' She settled back by degrees。 'I had that feeling again。 The déjà vu。'