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he realized it was her gloves. She had taken off her gloves.
    Surprised, he sensed that the only thing that he still wore was his gloves. But when he tried to work them off he found that he had already tossed them aside in the dark. Now his hands were revealed and vulnerable. He pulled back.
    He opened his mouth but she stopped him.
    â€œDon’t say anything.”
    He felt her move a small move, toward him.
    â€œSay only one thing.”
    He nodded, wondering what it would be.
    â€œTell me,” she said very quietly. He could not make out her face, it was still like the face in the window glass on the night train, traveling from station to station, a dark silhouette fixed between late-night TV channels, and pale and hidden.
    â€œTell me,” she said. He nodded. “How old are you?”
    His mouth gaped. He felt his eyes panic in his head. She repeated the question, implying the answer. Suddenly he absolutely knew the right and amazing truth. He shut his eyes, cleared his throat, and at last let his tongue move.
    â€œI’m …” he said.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œI’m eighteen, nineteen in August, five feet eight, one hundred fifty pounds, brown hair, blue eyes. Unattached.”
    He imagined he heard her very softly echo every word that he had said.
    He felt her shift, weightless, closer and still closer.
    â€œSay that again,” she whispered.

I N M EMORIAM
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    A ll the way home that late afternoon, driving through the winding streets, enjoying the weather, admiring the jacaranda trees and the violet snow they were letting down on the lawns, he noticed, but merely from the corner of his eyes, the apparatuses in front of almost every other garage. But they passed behind him without being named. They were familiar but there was no special reason to give them notice.
    The basketball hoops and boards above the garages, waiting for games.
    Nothing special. No particular connotations.
    Until he drove up in front of his house in the autumn weather and saw his wife standing, arms folded, out on the sidewalk, watching a young man up on a stepladder, his hands busy with a screwdriver and hammer. Neither noticed him until he banged the car. The young man looked down and his wife looked over as he gave a surprising cry.
    â€œWhat the hell goes on?” he shouted, and was amazed at his own emotion. His wife gave a calm response.
    â€œWhy, we’re just taking it down, is all. It’s been up there for years, and …”
    The husband glared up along the ladder.
    â€œGet down off there,” he said.
    â€œWhy?” his wife said.
    â€œI don’t have to have a reason, dammit, get down!”
    The young man nodded, rolled his eyeballs to heaven, and climbed down.
    â€œNow put the ladder away!” the husband said.
    â€œYou don’t have to shout,” his wife said.
    â€œAm I? Well. Just put the ladder away. Thanks.”
    â€œThat’s more like it,” she said.
    The young man carried the ladder into the open garage and left, quietly, in his car.
    The husband and wife, during all this, stood in the middle of the driveway gazing up at the basketball hoop.
    When the car was gone, she said, “Now what’s all this about?”
    â€œYou know!” he cried, and lowered his voice. “Hell.” He looked at his hands, on which had fallen a surprise of tears. “What’s this?”
    â€œIf you don’t know, no one does.” She softened her voice. “Come inside.”
    â€œNot until we finish.”
    â€œThe ladder’s gone and the hoop stays up. For now, anyway.”
    â€œNo, not for now,” he said, doggedly. “From now on .”
    â€œBut why?”
    â€œI want it there. Just in case.”
    â€œIn case what?”
    â€œThere’s got to be one place in all the damned world that’s his. There’s nothing out at the graveyard. There’s nothing anywhere in this country. Nothing in Saigon,