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“Anyway. You did find him? And left him some food? We’re not abandoning him to the foxes, in other words?”
    “He was under your dresser.”
    “Ah.” She nods. “I see.
My
dresser. Sounds like a conspiracy.”
    “Mimi, I just got held up.” His voice, though apologetic, is impatient too. He has been late for nearly everything his entire life; his voice says she should be used to it by now. “I said I was sorry. I had some work to do.”
    “So you did.” She hears herself sigh; the urge to fight has passed. “Oh, it’s all right, Art. I should be, but I’m not really mad at all.” She leans over the gearbox and—why not?—kisses her husband’s cheek. She knows this will surprise him, and it does; as she pulls away, Arthur reaches with his hand to the place on his face where she has kissed him.
    “Now,” she says, slapping her knees to tell him it’s over and to get the car in gear, “let’s go rescue our boy.”
     
    Arthur and Miriam, on the road; an hour of winding country lanes—woods and towns and gas stations floating by, everything denuded and bathed by a thin autumnal light—and then they join the interstate, a pulsing artery of commerce headed east into New England. In Albany they change places in the parking lot of a McDonald’s—it is just after two o’clock—continue into Massachusetts and the Berkshires, and stop at a state park near Great Barrington to eat the sandwiches and drink the soup that Arthur has packed.
    They arrive at the college after six, its great buildings ablaze with light. Despite the cold, students are everywhere. Doors and windows are open; music pours forth across the little town. They check into their hotel on the edge of campus and then telephone O’Neil in his dorm room. In the background Arthur can hear something like a party going on—loud voices, doors slamming, a girl laughing over the sound of a horn section and twanging guitars.
    “Sorry,” Arthur says, “we got a bit of a late start.”
    “What?” O’Neil says. “Will you guys shut the hell up? Hang on, Pop.” There is a muffling silence as his son smothers the receiver to yell something over the music. When his voice comes back on the line, the music is gone. “We’re all just cramming for midterms here. Very intense stuff.”
    “I could tell. Sorry we’re late.”
    “Sounds like a story.” O’Neil laughs at something Arthur can’t see. “Mom there?”
    “In the shower. Have you had your fill of fun already, or do you still want to eat?”
    “When didn’t I? The stuff they serve here is like army rations. Want to know what they gave us last night? Salmon loaf and pea-cheese sauce. We thought it was a joke, like Eat this, and that’s what you’ll do: you’ll pee cheese-sauce.”
    “Lovely,” Arthur says, laughing. “Bring Sandra, if you want. We’re all pretty excited to meet her.”
    “Sandra who?” His son lets the question—a joke, Arthur realizes—hang for a moment. “Kidding. But she’s got a rehearsal. It’ll be just me, I’m afraid.”
    Thirty minutes later they go downstairs to find O’Neil in the lobby, sitting on the sofa and reading from a stack of alumni magazines on the coffee table. He has dressed up a little, wearing pressed khakis and a navy wool blazer with a slender black necktie hanging loose around his throat. But what Arthur notices first is the haircut. O’Neil has always worn his hair long, in loose curls that hang over his ears. All of that is gone, replaced by a spiky crewcut. Their boy rises, smiling at the sight of them, and catches them both in a long-armed hug.
    “Honey,” Miriam says mournfully. “Oh, God, I know I shouldn’t say anything. Your hair?”
    O’Neil grins self-consciously and runs a hand over his scalp. “It was funny, but I just woke up one day and thought: I have to get rid of all this hair. I actually skipped a class just to go to a
barbershop
.”
    Miriam reaches out to touch his hair but stops herself, stroking