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asked me what I was looking for out there and I told her I didn’t know but I thought I was looking toward Manhattan. She wrapped her arm around my shoulder. “Some planner you are. You’re facing Pennsylvania.” She turned me toward Manhattan, where she thought I wanted to be pointed. I shuddered. “Do you want to talk?”
    I shrugged. “What’s there to talk about?”
    â€œLook,” Jennie went on, “I’m not going to force you, but if you want to or need to talk, will you tell me?”
    I told her I just missed him. There wasn’t really much more to say. I couldn’t say I wanted to get back at them. I couldn’t even say that to myself. For a while we stood together, arms on each other’s shoulders, facing a dark sky and a horizon, faintly illuminated, enough to let you know or at least suspect that America’s most complex metropolis was just beyond these placid fields.

4
    T HE NEXT AFTERNOON the crooked man I didn’t like at the party drove up to the house in a shiny red Datsun. As he got out of the car and waved at me, I realized I couldn’t remember his name. “Where are they?” he shouted, and I pointed to the barn, where Tom and Jennie were renovating a room. He nodded and came over and sat down beside me on the porch. “Good,” he said. “I really wanted to see you.”
    I’d been reading an architect’s report for a possible design perspective on the SAP project, and he picked up one of those reports, flipping through like a gambler shuffling cards. “My name’s Sean.” He smiled. “Did you remember?”
    â€œTo tell you the truth, I didn’t.”
    He nodded. “I don’t blame you. If I were you, I’d have forgotten immediately.” He ran his fingers through his thick, dark hair and, in the light of day, his face looked tired, his skin pale, as if he’d pulled an all-nighter, but he had wonderful eyes. I could see them clearly and now they seemed to sparkle, which they didn’t do last night, even though he looked tired. “Well”
—he stretched back in the chair—“I came to apologize for being an ass last night.”
    I laughed. “Oh, there’s nothing to apologize for.”
    He raised his hands, folded them in his lap, and leaned forward. “Yes, there is. I hate parties. I’m not very good at social gatherings. I was obnoxious. I’m not really a stuntman. That is, I’m a stuntman because I do stunts. I’m very athletic but it’s not my goal and I don’t plan on doing it forever.” He paused. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
    â€œI don’t either.”
    He scratched his head. “Should I stop?” I wasn’t sure what he should do or what I wanted to hear.
    Then he apologized for apologizing. “It’s this thing I have. I always feel like I’ve acted inappropriately. I’m always saying I’m sorry.” He said he always felt he had something to be sorry for.
    I told him I didn’t know what was worse. I’d been married to a man who never apologized to me except once in seven years in the note he left me on the kitchen table, saying he was leaving. “I don’t know why I told you that,” I added.
    â€œBecause you wanted to.”
    â€œNo, I didn’t.” I was flustered and confused and somehow he’d gotten me to confide in him the details of the demise of my marriage.
    â€œWell, I’m sorry if I made you say something you didn’t want to say.” He shook his head. “I’m apologizing again.”
    â€œI think lots of men have a hard time saying they’re sorry. My father never does.”
    â€œMine either.” He smiled and lay back in the rocker, arms folded across his chest.
    Sean had an open invitation for dinner that he’d never taken them up on, Jennie told me as we scraped