To open a window of my Upper West Side studio, after New York’s night of thunderstorms, was to be instantly seduced by clean spring air. An early morning walk was called for to get the warm weather out of my system before I sacrificed the bulk of the holiday weekend to devising copy for a local boutique’s mail-order Christmas catalog.

Riverside Park was almost desolate at that hour: seven joggers and three dog-walkers. Many city-dwellers were now heading for a beach to work on the ritual first burn of the season; others merely slept late. With industrial haze washed from the air, the Palisades across the Hudson seemed close enough to touch. Though scarred by high-rise co-ops and gas and oil tanks, those cliffs somehow retained hints of their glacier-carved glory.

As usual, I felt drawn to the boat basin at Seventy-Ninth Street. Its piers were in poor condition, and few of the houseboats harbored there were seaworthy, but the concept of a waterborne community a few steps from Manhattan was irresistible. A wire mesh fence with a single gate—kept always locked—protected the basin from my world, but I could look.

There was a pay telephone at the shoreward end of one pier, being used by a thin woman in T-shirt and cut-off jeans. My eyes registered her presence and moved on. These boat people might be accustomed to being stared at, but that didn’t mean they enjoyed it. I respect their right to privacy by not noticing them, and hoped they realized as much.

The woman had other ideas. She stepped away from the telephone, waved, and hulloed. I looked around; no one else in sight. Still, she had a better view than I and might be calling to someone else. I returned the wave timidly; I could pretend to fan myself.

With a nod and a finger she indicated I should meet her at the gate.

She stood half a head taller than I. Except for well-formed legs, her figure was boyish. Her dull brown hair was a mass of curls framing pinched but not unattractive features. She didn’t smile, but her manner was earnest; she was glad I hadn’t ignored her.

“You must think I’m awfully rude,” she began. I didn’t contradict her. “I don’t like to impose, but I need a favor.”

“Not bus fare, I hope.”

She looked puzzled.

“When strangers ask me for favors,” I explained, “it’s usually bus fare. Or coffee. When they bother justifying the request at all.”

“Oh. You mean money. No, that’s not it. The problem is that last night’s storm knocked out some of the electric lines, and the emergency generators didn’t start working until just before dawn. Meanwhile, most of the perishables in my refrigerator, ah, perished; in the dark, I didn’t notice that the door hadn’t closed properly. I’ve been trying to restock, but most of the stores I deal with won’t answer their telephone. Even Zabar’s claims it’s too early to have anything delivered.”

“I’m not surprised, considering this is Memorial Day weekend.”

She slapped her forehead melodramatically. “Of course. I always lose track of what day it is. I’ve seen so many.”

“That’s a poetic way of putting it.”

“Thank you. Poetry won’t solve my problem, though. I hoped you would help me.”

“I don’t see what your problem is. You can walk to Broadway in ten minutes and pick up anything you need for the weekend ...”

The sharp intake of breath startled me. Her fingers whitened where they entwined the mesh of the gate.

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who are afraid to walk through a New York park.” I sighed.

She nodded.

“All right. I’ll walk you to West End Avenue.”

The last hint of color left her face. “I can’t.”

“Look. I go through this park two or three times a week and hardly ever get killed. You don’t think I’m going to rape you, do you?”

She shook her head. “Nothing like that. It’s just ... I don’t dare leave here.”

“You’ve got a bigger problem than you realize. Nice talking to you. ...”

“No, please. Don’t go. I need your help.”

“I don’t think I’m qualified.”

“All you have to do is pick up a few things. Here, I made a list. And you can keep the change out of this.” She reached into a pocket of her cut-offs and pulled out a paper wad that she thrust through the mesh. If I hadn’t taken it, it would have blown into the river. There were half a dozen items on the list. The bill was crisp, new; Ulysses Grant had never looked so sober.

“You want me to shop for you?”

“Please.” And because her tone was neither wheedling nor coquettish, I gave in.

“This is too much money.” I pushed the fifty back at her.

She didn’t look at it. “I haven’t anything smaller. You’ll have to break it for me.”

I stuck it with the list in my shirt pocket. “This is crazy. You don’t even know my name. You’ve no guarantee I’ll come back.”

“You will.” She backed away and sat on a short bench at the edge of the pier, an arm’s length from the gate. “I’ll wait here.”

*     *     *
She was still there forty minutes later. The fence was too high to toss the bags over, even if their contents could have survived the fall, so she unlocked the gate. I gave her the large bag first.

“Your change is in the bottom. All of it. So don’t throw it out by mistake. And this is a present.” I dangled a smaller bag near her nose.

“What is it?”

“Hot, fresh, just-made bagels. That’s what took so long. Anyone who trusts a total stranger in New York City with fifty dollars deserves a present.”

“Ummm, they smell wonderful. At least let me pay you for them.”

“Not one cent for tribute!”

“But I owe you something for your trouble ...”

“I was thinking about that on my way back. Every time I walk in Riverside, I wind up here, staring wistfully at the boat basin ... yet I’ve never actually been on board or seen the inside of a houseboat.”

She chewed her lower lip.

“Of course, if it’s inconvenient, forget I asked. I can see why someone else living on the boat might object.”

“No,” she said slowly. “I live alone.”

“Um. Well, I thought my non-rapist status had been established, but I understand your hesitation. Really, it’s all right.”

“No, it isn’t,” she answered firmly. “I’m wavering only because I’m such a loser that I’m unused to playing hostess.” Suddenly she thrust both bags into my arms and pulled me forward by an elbow.

“What’s this?”

“I can’t relock the gate with my hands full, and we have strict rules. Do you see the square brown and yellow one at the end of the south pier? That’s mine. Go ahead. I’ll catch up.”

The dock boards seemed to creak louder under my tread as I got further from shore. I stepped around, then over, the occasional gap larger than my hand. Once, a pair of eyes even watched me from a cabin cruiser’s port, but they vanished when I looked back. No one questioned me. My hostess wasn’t kidding about the stringent rules governing gate access; I could not be here if I hadn’t been invited.

She came up from behind as I reached the gangway and snatched away the larger bag. “I’d better carry this inside. You’re probably not used to walking on surfaces that won’t hold still.”

“I earned my sea legs on the Staten Island Ferry,” I protested, following. On the outside deck, as she pushed the door open, I touched her elbow.

She turned.

“I must know one thing before you shanghai me.”

She stiffened, licked her lips. “Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies.”

“Quaint. I can’t promise not to be nosy, but you needn’t reply to anything if you don’t want to. I thought, though, it might be helpful to introduce ourselves.”

Her muscles relaxed. I removed my hand.

“I’m Melinae.”

I told her my name. “Now we’re even, Melinae. An unusual name, but it fits you perfectly.”

“It ought to. I’ve had it long enough.”

We stepped below deck.

I don’t know what I expected to see—fish-nets hung wall to wall, perhaps, or a rack of bloodied harpoons. The single interior room differed little from my studio apartment. It appeared half again as long, and my kitchen space lacked the low iron rail around the stove of her galley. The head was a third the size of my bathroom. I’d thought my apartment sparsely furnished, but she had me beat. There was a sleeping bunk that could be folded against one wall—which Melinae promptly did, to hide the unmade mess—a couple of parson’s tables, a small portable television, and a dozen pillows. My desk, file cabinets, and bookcases would have seemed frivolous luxuries against this setting.

Fortunately, Melinae did not see my look of disappointment, and I recovered quickly—though not permanently. I’d felt fine on the gangway and the outside deck, but in these homely surroundings, watching Melinae put her groceries away, the pitching of the floor made me woozy. Forming a nest out of three large pillows, I burrowed into it, gripping a fourth pillow by its corners. There was nothing else to hold onto.

Seconds later, Melinae knelt to offer a thickly buttered bagel on a plate. I pried the fingers of one hand loose long enough to take the plate, but I couldn’t figure out how to eat without using both. That warm, dripping pastry deserved a better reception.

“I’m heating water for tea ... unless you prefer coffee?”

“Tea is fine,” I replied, wondering how I’d manage that juggling act.

Melinae abruptly patted the top of my head, stood up, and walked to a thick brown curtain at the far end of the room. She pulled this open to reveal an enormous picture window, filling most of the wall, framing a section of the Palisades.

“Look at the river’s surface,” she advised.

I raised my head. The Hudson flowed calmly, carrying things I didn’t want to know about. My brain was once more able to correlate signals from eye and inner ear. I could let go of my pillow. Later that day I walked the length of the room unsupported.

“It took me a few days to get used to it, but that was ages ago. Now I sometimes have trouble walking on the dock.”

“No wonder you dislike dry land.”

She frowned. “Don’t tease.”

“Sorry. You’re new to New York, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I suppose if you come here often you’ve noticed my boat is a recent arrival.”

I wouldn’t have noticed a circus tent on a raft among the basin’s motley assortment, but why disillusion her? “Several things told me. Your attitude. Your accent, which I’ve never heard before. Where are you from?”

“Many places. Florida most recently. A small resort town south of Sarasota; I don’t remember if it had a name of its own.”

“Why come here? Not that I’m questioning your judgment. I’m a native New Yorker and wouldn’t live anywhere else. But it’s not for everyone.”

“I had trouble sleeping. I’d wake up in the middle of the night, haunted by the feeling that I was the last of my kind, fighting a losing battle for survival.”

“I went through something similar in the weeks following my divorce. I shut out the world, and it began to fade. The unreality results from isolation, but it’s healthy in small doses.”

“Perhaps. The sleepy Florida town did nothing to dispel the situation. I needed the bustle of people doing things, accomplishing, striving, moving. Here, I can sit on the roof of my boat, listening to the roar of traffic on the Hudson Parkway, awed by your marvelous skyline. Places have aurae, you know; New York’s is a vibrant, pulsing one.”

“You should have written copy for the ‘I Love New York’ campaign ... and I mean that as a compliment. I’m flattered for my hometown, particularly as you say you’ve traveled widely.”

“Incessantly. At first because I had to; now because I want to. I may be reacting to the novelty of living here, but I think not. I think I’ll stay for a long time.”

“It’s a fine place to put down roots,” I agreed.

Melinae dropped her plate. It hadn’t far to fall; the bagel was saved. Then she was on her feet, hurrying to the galley. “The water’s ready.”

“I don’t hear a whistle,” I said ... and then I did. Melinae either had better hearing or simply knew from experience how long her kettle took to boil. Water sloshed into cups.

“This has to steep for a few minutes. Now I’ll stop acting like a dazzled country cousin. It’s your turn to be grilled. You were married?”

We then discovered I could be evasive, too. It was beginning to look as though we would never find common ground for a prolonged conversation. I became uncomfortable: a cardinal rule of initial boy/girl encounters is to keep talking so the other won’t notice how boring you are. We sat in silence, sipping strong, hot tea and watching the river drift by. My discomfort melted away. If cities had aurae, so did people. Melinae seemed enveloped by a sense of timelessness, a serenity born of the sure knowledge that eternity lay before one. In her hazel eyes, generations of men and women, ideas and inventions were recorded. That we barely spoke did not matter until I noticed, with some distress, a huge orange ball settling behind the Palisades.

“My god, Melinae! I didn’t mean to take up your whole day.”

She rested fingers on my arm. “I’m enjoying it. You’re a very restful person.”

I snorted.

“No, you really are. Of course there’s a tension in you, a driving agitation I can read in your face, but you still have a calm effect. You don’t make demands.”

“How did I get on board, then?”

“Well, not many demands. Stay as long as you wish.”

I sighed. “You’re making it difficult. I’d love to stay, but Bently’s won’t permit it.”

“Who?”

“Bently’s. A neighborhood boutique with delusions of grandeur. I have to finish the copy for their Christmas catalog by Tuesday.”

“Christmas is seven months away.”

“Production has to run four to six months ahead of time. It sounds silly, but that’s my deadline and I can’t afford to miss it. Freelancing jobs come more often when one has a reputation for reliability. Now I’ve got two days for a three-day job.”

“I’m sorry I made you forget.”

“I’m not. I’m readier to tackle it now than I was this morning. What’s a few less hours of sleep? I couldn’t be any more refreshed than you’ve made me feel.”

She walked me to the gate to unlock it. As our footsteps echoed in the hollow between pier and river, we fell silent again. My discomfort returned. This strange, wonderful interlude was coming to a close; I didn’t want it to pass unnoticed. As Melinae inserted the key, I blurted out what was on my mind.

“I’ll be finished Monday night. Why don’t we celebrate? I know a great place nearby for steamed clams, and we could take in a film at the Quad ...”

Her face turned away, but her fingers tightened around the lock. “Don’t ask me to do that.”

“You can’t stay cooped up all the time. You said you wanted the hustle and bustle. I’d like to show my city off.”

“It can’t be.”

The finality of that statement wrenched me. “I see now,” I said after a moment. “You live alone, but you never leave your boat. There’s only one way you could pay for all of your necessities without working. Or perhaps you do think of it as work, and I was a diversion on your day off.”

She looked at me, shocked. “That’s not fair. I like you. What more do you expect?”

“Nothing, I suppose. No, I don’t expect anything, really. You’ve got to save yourself for him.”

“Don’t spoil the day. There is no him.”

“Sure. Open the gate, please. I have work to do.”

She pushed it open, stopped, and turned to look into my eyes, but couldn’t. I couldn’t face hers, either.

“Will you come again?”

I started to ask about visiting hours. That seemed overly cruel. I decided to say nothing at all.

My tongue had another idea.

“When?”

“Any time. I’m always home. And there’s no one else. You’re the first person in New York I’ve really met.”

I had no reply to that. I took Melinae’s free hand, brushed her fingers with my lips, and slipped out the gate. I heard her relock it as I stepped onto the asphalt path. Long, twilit shadows stretched across the broken blacktop. I shuffled a short distance, gave in, and turned around. Melinae was at the gangway of her houseboat. With the sun in my eyes, I couldn’t tell if she looked back.

I walked away. The mercury vapor lamps above the pathways suddenly clicked on, creating far eerier shadows than the setting sun. A terrier whose owner feared to violate the leash law in full daylight shuffled along the edge of the green. On a bench spotlighted by the glare of one light sat a short, squat man muffled in a rain slicker and a sou’wester hat. Only the reflected light of his eyes and the gnarled, stubby fingers of his hands were exposed. I don’t normally address myself, uninvited, to strangers, but something about his attitude compelled comment, and I still had some sardonicism to get out of my system.

“It’s a bit dry for that get-up,” I said to him. “You must have read yesterday’s weather.”

His voice was harshly guttural. “There are tempests and tempests. Are you sure you’re not heading into a storm?”

I shrugged, laughed politely to make up for my rudeness, and continued south to the Seventy-Second Street exit. The Upper West Side, like most of Manhattan, was overly gifted with peculiar characters, not all of them as harmless as the man on the bench appeared to be. His words stayed with me, though, for they coincided with a nagging feeling in my subconscious. As the distance between myself and the placid, timeless world of the houseboat increased, I grew less sure about Melinae. My relationships with women had never quite worked out; either I went out of my way to please the lady, or she went out of her way to please me, so that months later—years later in the case of my marriage—we’d discover we had very little in common. Usually not at the same time, which made parting painful.

I hadn’t gone much out of my way, and I was fairly certain Melinae hadn’t gone out of hers. Apparently we felt comfortable with each other. Yet all I knew about her was that she had an inordinate fear of leaving her home, and an unpredictable wanderlust. Not a likely combination, and not a very promising indicator of psychic stability. I was poor at estimating age, but Melinae looked to be in her thirties; only her worldly hazel eyes belied the youthful aspect. Uncommon maturity ... or advanced psychosis?

I reached a decision just outside the park, waiting for the light to change on West End Avenue. I liked the woman, but I could not become involved with someone so beset by problems, real and potential. Life was complicated enough.

*     *     *
The man in the raincoat occupied the same bench late Monday afternoon as I passed him, catalog completed, fortified by a hot shower and a two-hour nap, carrying a sack of Chinese take-out food. I nodded a greeting while I waited for a nine-year-old boy who’d been staring through the cracks in the pier to tell Melinae I was there. The man ignored me.

“All right,” I murmured. “Two can play that game.” So I deliberately paid no attention to him, either then or later, when I left Melinae.

In fact, he was there nearly every night I called on the woman. That, it soon developed, was almost every night ... and I didn’t always go home.

*     *     *
Through low-resolution binoculars, I could see something flapping from an upper window of a co-op building on the Palisades. When the object came into focus, my guess was confirmed. One person in New Jersey believed strongly enough in observing Flag Day to flaunt his or her patriotism in New York’s face. The Garden State had no monopoly on such feelings: flags also hung from masts on several of the basin’s houseboats.

“I wonder if Flag Day is still a school holiday,” I mused aloud. “Do kids bother going to school anymore?”

We’d spent the morning on the roof, but the early afternoon sun was too hot and we retreated to the shady, air-conditioned interior. I wouldn’t have had the nerve to scan the opposite shore with field glasses if anyone could have seen me. Melinae shoveled the remains of our lunch into a garbage bag I would dispose of when I left and sat next to me. I offered the binoculars. She shook her head.

Then she asked if she could trust me.

“I thought you did.”

“I do. I meant, may I trust you? I need something done, an errand of sorts. I’m not sure it’s fair to thrust the responsibility on you.”

I chuckled. “As I recall, that’s how we met.”

“This is more complicated than buying milk.”

I looked into deep, sad, serious eyes. My hand covered her cool fingers. “Melinae, you know I’ll do anything in my power for you.” A month earlier I’d sneered at such corny lies; it’s different when you mean it.

She drew her hand away, stood, and walked to a paneled wall of the cabin. Her back blocked my view, but she must have released a hidden catch, because a section of panel suddenly swung inward on top-hung hinges. Melinae reached down into the gap and withdrew a flat metal cashbox. The panel fell shut again. I couldn’t see its outline from where I sat. A few days later, I examined the wall out of curiosity, and spent several minutes finding the trick panel even though I knew where it was.

Holding the box, Melinae lowered herself cross-legged before me. Her right hand dipped under the neck of her blouse and pulled out a neck chain with a key at its end. This was unusual, because as long as I’d known her Melinae had never worn jewelry. Who would she have to impress?

“You once asked where I got the money to pay my bills,” she said, unlocking the box.

“Yes, and you properly indicated it was none of my business. You later mentioned an inheritance.”

“An inheritance. True enough. These things were left to me; there was no one else to claim them. My family no longer exists.” She threw back the lid and passed the box to me.

I gasped. And gaped.

Resting on a bottom lining of cotton were more than a dozen pieces of exquisitely crafted jewelry. Small wonder she did not wear these while striding the docks! I didn’t know a torque from a choker, but if these weren’t hand-wrought, with a quality of workmanship requiring days for their creation, I was blind. At Melinae’s urging, I held a gold necklace up to the sunlight streaming through the window. I toyed with it, as though starting a cat’s cradle, but it was too thick and heavy for that game.

“Solid gold?”

“More than ninety percent pure,” she confirmed. “The man who made that was a master.”

“It looks like something from the Metropolitan Museum.”

“I want you to sell it for me.”

“But ... it’s so beautiful.”

“Then choose another. I must sell one of these pieces to meet my expenses. That necklace is drab compared to some of the other items I’ve parted with.”

I lowered my gaze to the other items. Melinae was right; they were all attractive, some more so than the necklace. I closed the box and returned it, retaining the item in my hand. “Now I know why you don’t have to work. I could live off the value of this for years.”

“You’d be amazed how quickly money vanishes, even given my frugal lifestyle. At one time a piece like that would suffice for decades.”

“Before my time, I’m afraid.”

She pursed her lips before continuing. “The gold in that necklace alone is worth more than ten thousand dollars. I can’t imagine the artistic value in today’s market. An honest dealer might give you seven or eight thousand, but you’d have to answer many questions. You’ll be lucky to get half of that. Get it in cash. If the buyer is curious, tell him any story you like—except the truth. Whatever you do, don’t tell him there’s more where that came from. I speak from experience.”

I licked dry lips. “I hope it isn’t hot.”

Melinae stiffened, then placed a hand on my knee. “If I swear that no one has a claim on this but me ...”

“I was joking. I believe you. Still, I can’t help feeling nervous. I don’t know anything about gold-trading.”

“I’ve told you all you need to know. Shall I repeat it?”

“Not if that’s all there is. I know of a few shops on Broadway that deal in this sort of thing. I’ll have it appraised tomorrow afternoon, shop around for the best offer ... which will be a fraction of its true worth, I’m sure.”

“I expect no more.”

“I’d feel better if you came along to protect your interests.”

“You know I can’t.”

“I know you won’t. I haven’t pressed the point because of your strong reaction to it, Melinae, but what is the use of living on the edge of the world’s greatest city if you’re afraid to enter it?”

“We agreed you wouldn’t ask personal questions.”

“No. We agreed you didn’t have to answer them. Consider the topic dropped.”

“Thank you. And thank you again for those picture books of New York you keep bringing me. You’ve done an excellent job of showing off the Big Apple in spite of ... the handicap.”

I slid the necklace into the front pocket of my jeans and stuffed a paper napkin from lunch after it. I didn’t want the bauble bouncing out and through a hole in the dock into the Hudson.

I couldn’t stay that night. I’d been dragooned into a formal sales presentation early the next morning, for which I’d need a full night’s sleep and a few extra hours to locate a tie and my one suit jacket, neither of which I’d worn in over a year. We parted later than we should have, however; Riverside Park was already deeply shaded by night. Usually I don’t worry about muggers; I cultivate a purposeful, seemingly alert stride they don’t care for, and rarely carry more than a few dollars. Tonight I worried that the necklace’s weight might cause me to favor one leg, thereby advertising the entrusted wealth. On the plus side, I had every step of the paths memorized by this time. If I remained within range of the mercury vapor lamps, I was fairly safe.

On the minus side I noticed, glancing back, that the man in the rain slicker had left his bench to follow me.

My brisk pace quickened. I knew he wasn’t glued to the bench, for a few times he hadn’t been there when I passed. His choosing this night to become ambulatory in my sight was probably coincidental.

Such coincidences are untrustworthy.

I stole another look behind. Despite his shorter legs, the man kept pace with me. I walked faster. He began closing the gap. Before I realized it, I was running, rubber soles slapping asphalt, echoing over the water. The greenery on my left was a dark blur.

I kept up that pace until I was through the short tunnel under the Hudson Parkway and within sight of West End Avenue. I turned, panting.

The man was no longer there. He’d obviously switched to a bypath.

“Jerk!” I muttered. “Overreacting like that! A good thing no one saw you.” I took a deep breath, spun around again ...

... and the man in the raincoat stood before me, little higher than my waist.

“Who are you?” I blurted out.

“A guardian of sorts.”

“Guarding what?

He shuffled rubber-booted feet. “An overseer, then. You’ve nothing to fear from me. I mean only to warn you about Melinae.”

“What about her?”

Between hat and high collar, an eye glowered balefully. “This isn’t part of my function, you know. I tried to warn you before, but I was over-subtle. Melinae and I go back a long way together.”

I started to walk past him; he moved to block me. “She obviously no longer wishes your company,” I said.

“I’m quite sure she wishes me dead. However, I cannot die until I’ve discharged my duty.”

“You talk of duty, of function. What are you? C.I.A.? You suspect Melinae of wrongdoing?”

“Not suspect. Not illegal, either, by your laws. I wonder if I can make you understand. No; I see by the set of your jaw that you have a stubborn streak. You would side with her.”

“Damned right. Now get out of my way.”

“A moment more.”

“I don’t want to hit someone smaller than me.”

“I should think not. It would be awkward if you attracted the attention of that policeman. I’d have to tell him about the necklace you stole from me.”

“How did you ...? It wouldn’t matter. Melinae would clear me.”

“Do you think she would leave her houseboat even for that?”

“Of course.”

“You don’t. There’s hesitation in your voice. I don’t, either, or I’d have taken the action already.”

“Say your piece.”

He sighed. “I’ve changed my mind. You’re too hostile; my advice wouldn’t sink in. Go on, fool. If I can’t protect you, maybe I can use you.”

“Fat chance of that.” I brushed past him.

“I suggest you do not mention this conversation to Melinae,” he added.

I looked back.

He was gone.

Naturally I intended telling Melinae of this incident the next day. She would then explain what this man meant in her life, and I could deal with him accordingly.

Or would she? I didn’t often pry into her past; when our talk drifted in that direction, she always steered it skillfully away. Perhaps she’d fled from town to town for fear of this stranger. If so, she might flee again.

Selfishness won. Now I try to persuade myself that telling her then wouldn’t have made any difference.

*     *     *
“It’s lucky I came early,” I said, standing on the outside deck of Melinae’s boat and looking east. Riverside Park was clogged with blankets, coolers, and thousands of people. Shrill childish cries and overamplified radios grew louder as reinforcements arrived. I fled below. Melinae climbed down from the roof after me.

“I couldn’t hear you,” she said.

“I’d never have navigated through that crowd. Makes me claustrophobic; trapped at the end of a pier by an angry mob.”

“Yes. A lot of people have come through the gate, too; my neighbors have more guests today than they had in all of June.”

“I’m sure more visitors are paying for the privilege.”

She turned to me, wide-eyed. “They aren’t ...”

“Sure. No better spot for viewing Macy’s Fourth of July fireworks.”

“I wish I’d thought of that.”

“Say it ain’t so!” I said in dismay.

She smiled; she’d been doing that more lately. “I guess not, but a little extra cash never hurts.”

“I’ll buy out the house. Where are your rags?”

“I left them on the roof.”

“You’re not going to polish any more chrome, are you? It’s almost sunset.”

“It’s got to be done ... but you’re right, not tonight. Look at how filthy my hands and knees are from resting on today’s Times! I’ll wash, and then we’ll see what goodies are left in your picnic basket.”

“Take your time. The fireworks don’t start before nine.”

I needed a wash, also; my hands were stained and sticky with varnish. I didn’t have to help with maintenance, but I couldn’t sit around watching her work and, as she’d observed, it had to be done. I’d learned just enough about life on a houseboat to take the edge off my envy without losing it entirely.

Past the open curtains, the silhouette of Macy’s barge drifted into view. Workers on board began to anchor it, and I noted with satisfaction that we could observe most of the display from indoors if we sat close to one corner of the window.

So we did.

The light show was impressive, but the explosions sounded weak, like corn popping. I opened a port. Halfway down the pier an open-air boat party made more noise than the fireworks. I immediately shut the port again, noticing that someone on the vessel opposite us did likewise. The party-giver would face some irate neighbors in the morning.

Sometime after the final burst, Melinae and I were settling down to more personal fireworks when I smelled smoke. I learned afterward that a youth gang had decided to rival Macy’s with its own display, lacking, of course, any safety precautions. One of their dud rockets had landed on the roof of Melinae’s cabin, where it ignited the newspapers and rags we’d left up there. If not for the party boat, we’d have watched the show from the roof and cleaned things up ... and our nearest neighbors would have had their ports opened and noticed before the fire got out of hand. By the time I got that whiff, flames were crackling overhead.

Melinae felt me tense, looked up, and leapt up, buttoning her denim cut-offs. I yanked up my slacks.

“This way!” I yelled. Melinae raced not for safety, but for the catch of her secret panel. She fumbled, withdrew the cashbox, and clutched it to her bare chest. I was running to her as she turned, and I snatched a red and gold sheet to drape over her shoulders. Then we were outside and down the gangway.

“Don’t go back for anything!”

Before Melinae could reply, I tore loose the pier’s fire extinguisher, misread the directions, swallowed hard, and read them again correctly. Foam spurted over the freshly varnished deck and quickly trickled to nothing. I cursed whoever should have replaced this equipment before the contents evaporated, and myself for not pausing to grab Melinae’s extinguisher, which I knew was full.

By then, others were aware of the problem. A threat to one boat was a threat to all. Boards vibrated as a heavyset man leapt to the deck from his cruiser carrying his own extinguisher. His spraying was more effectual than mine, but the blaze had gone too far. A middle-aged woman, similarly armed, joined in. I suddenly felt very stupid with my useless, empty container. I put it down and wrapped an arm around Melinae’s waist. She was stiff as stone, and her flesh almost as cold. I couldn’t look at her face.

“Don’t watch,” I advised.

She didn’t protest as I led her shoreward, away from the clouds of smoke. The dock residents battled to contain the fire; saving the boat was out of the question.

She halted under a light. Her knuckles were white against the box. “I think there’s enough here,” she muttered. “There has to be enough.”

“Melinae ...”

“The next boat won’t be as large; probably a third-hand modified barge. That’s not important.”

I considered her optimistic. I’d seen what the necklace had brought, and what she had left, and what boats were selling for. This wasn’t the time to express doubts, however. “Sure. We’ll start shopping around tomorrow.”

“You’ll have to look for me.”

“We can wait until you feel up to it.”

“I can’t leave here. Someone will put me up for a few days. They’ll understand.”

“Melinae, I have trouble telling port from starboard. I can’t represent you in a purchase this important.”

“Whatever you choose is fine, as long as it floats.” The hazel eyes focused on me. “You said you loved me. You must know how important it is for me to remain here.”

I couldn’t keep the secret forever. “I know more than you realize. I’ve met the man in the raingear.”

“Who?”

“He spends most of his life warming a bench outside the basin gate.”

She shivered. “I thought he might be. But he can’t do anything if I stay here.”

“He won’t try anything while you’re with me.”

She pulled away. “You don’t understand. He doesn’t have to do anything. You couldn’t possibly stop ...”

Sirens drowned her voice. At the seaward end of the wharf one of the fireboats that had accompanied the Macy’s barge now joined the fighting. On shore, conventional fire engines tried to move through the late-leaving fireworks watchers, who were getting an encore of thrills. Someone opened the gate to let the firemen through, but he was premature. More than a score of gawkers stampeded down the dock. The rush of the throng tore Melinae from my side. She sank beneath the horde.

I lunged after her.

She lay face down, bleeding from a cut on her forehead. I hunched over her body, collected the bruises that heedless feet would have inflicted on her, and hoped someone would block the gate before we were trampled.

She stirred, moaning. “The box ...”

I looked up and saw a flash of metal at the side of the pier. A blue and orange jogging shoe sent it over the edge into the black river. “Sonofabitch,” I hissed.

I dared not leave Melinae unprotected. “It’s all right,” I whispered. “The water isn’t too deep. I can fish it out in the morning.”

She didn’t hear me, which was just as well. I sounded even less confident than I felt.

After a while there were no fresh blows. I risked a glance at the gate. A policeman stood there now, under a vapor lamp, preventing further intrusions. I hoped he expected reinforcements.

Melinae was still unconscious. My legs and sides were stiff and my right hand throbbed where a heel had ground into it. Surely bones were broken. I could stand, though, and walk a little. A few steps away was the gangway of a houseboat whose inhabitants could not refuse Melinae a bunk in her condition. I rolled her onto her back, located and draped the sheet over her, slipped my arms under her knees and shoulders, and lifted ... with success, to my surprise. I was glad she was thin and that I only had to carry her a few steps.

That was as far as I’d meant to carry her.

Behind me, a voice cried, “It’s spreading to the dock!”

I was too fuddled to doubt this statement or even look for myself. That’s one more thing to blame myself for, but panic is contagious and my nerves were taut. With strength from some unguessed-at reserve, I rushed along the shuddering boards with Melinae in my arms. The cop at the gate shouted something as we went through, but he had his hands full keeping people out of the basin.

Surprisingly, some of the crowd clustered about the gate saw me coming, realized my urgency, and moved aside to let us through. None volunteered to help me carry Melinae; they’d have missed the fire. Away from the immediate area, the crowd was well dispersed. Sweat blinded me, but I knew the path by heart.

Walking was agony. My bruised legs stiffened against the strain; my spine knotted itself to protest the forty-five kilograms of the woman I carried; my crushed hand throbbed. While there were people around, the adrenalin flowed, but when we took a sharp turn and found ourselves alone, I started looking for a soft spot to collapse.

“An excellent idea. Why not stretch out on that patch of grass?”

I froze at the sound of the rasping voice. The little man in the raingear stood before us.

Fresh adrenalin pumped through me. “Touch this woman,” I growled, “and I’ll break your neck.”

“How melodramatic. I’ve never meant her any harm; only to see that she discharges her obligation, which she had put off for far too long.”

Melinae stirred. Her eyes opened, liquid with dread as she realized the situation. “We must go back!”

“You cannot,” said the little man, removing his hat. The top of his head was a mass of furrows, the flesh dead-white in the vapor lamp’s glow. The eyes were deep-set, the nose long and thin ... and the ears seemed to be pointed at their tips.

“Slime!” She spat at him, tightening her grip around my neck. “Why won’t you leave me alone?”

“Not all of us are as ready as you to forfeit responsibility. I think, however, that my task nears an end.”

Melinae shivered, looked at me. “We must go back. Quickly. Before you grow too weak to hold me.”

“It’s hopeless, Melinae,” said the little man. “Your man is exhausted. His knees are shaking. Let him sit on the grass and catch his breath.”

I was weary. Melinae’s weight sagged in my arms. She felt it, too, and gasped in terror. The sound revived me.

“Whatever you say, Melinae,” I gasped.

“To the docks! Hurry!”

I started walking back. The request seemed arbitrary, but Melinae’s fear was real, and I loathed the little man. If he wanted me to rest, I would not.

“Melinae!” he called. “You must pay your price sooner or later. It was agreed! You’ll never make it. The man’s tendons are tearing. His spine is cracking.”

“Don’t listen!” Melinae ordered. “We can make it if you don’t listen to him.” She clapped her hands over my ears.

I picked up my stride. My bare, splintered feet bled in a dozen places. My calves were afire. But I would not let her go, could not give up. Not this time.

My life had been a series of failures. I’d married too young, with disastrous results. I’d quit a secure management position to write the great American novel and wound up writing descriptions of mail-order goods no sane person would buy. Now all that seemed to have led to this moment, this bizarre contest of wills compelling me to push my body beyond its limits. This was the most crucial test of my life; failing Melinae now would be the most ignominious of my defeats. And if I succeeded, nothing else would matter.

The little man sensed my determination. I would not fail.

And then his weight plowed into my legs. I pitched sideways onto grassy ground. I still held on to her, but Melinae landed before me. Her scream was a low, chilling, unhuman screech of anguish that haunts me still.

Then nothing.

*     *     *
I was quite a sight, lying face down, wearing only torn slacks, bruised and bloodied. My toes rested on the lip of the asphalt path, and my left hand—the good one—clutched the root of a tall oak tree. As the first rays of the sun filtered through its branches, I tried to move. A pounding in my skull forced me to wait. One side of my face was stiff and sticky with dried blood. An unleashed dog sniffed at my ankle, and its owner rebuked it for straying near a wino. I suppose the woman thought I’d give it fleas.

I finally pulled myself into a sitting position braced against the oak and bent forward, head between my knees, until I was sure I wouldn’t pass out or be physically ill. I was already sick at heart, overwhelmed by self-disgust. I’d failed Melinae. The little man had had his way, though exactly what that meant I didn’t know. The world turned red when I tried flexing my right hand. Shattered bones, for sure. I’d have to get to a hospital.

First I wanted to go home and clean up.

Still, I didn’t move. I couldn’t let it go. I swore I’d find that little man, somehow, and Melinae, too. Using the thick oak for support, I got to my feet and glared at a jogger who’d been staring at me. He turned his head and jogged faster. I glared across the Hudson River at oil tanks and high-rises, but they didn’t seem worthy of my scorn. I glared upward at the fates, or at God, or at whatever supernatural force I could blame my screw-ups on.

Then I groaned, discovering that I could do nothing.

I knew every stone and moss-patch, every tree and bush on the path between the Seventy-Second Street entrance and the boat basin. I realized, as I stared up through the oak’s thick branches and saw, tangled higher than any human could have thrown it, the same red and gold sheet I’d draped over Melinae’s half-naked form, that this tree had not stood here the night before.

I’d blacked out, but I hadn’t let go of Melinae. When I’d awakened, my hand had been wrapped around a tree root.

What had she bartered for, to pay that price?


(Note: This story originally appeared in Fantasy Book vol.2 no. 1 February 1983.)