The Black Dagger Brotherhood: An Insider's Guide

The Brotherhood’s Interview

My husband and I are moving into a new house. Which is great. Actually, it’s almost a hundred years old, but it’s new to us and our dog. My mother and her business partner and their crew have been working on it for a couple of months, and they’re just about finished. I figure we’ll be settling in a few weeks from now—and going through that wonderful process of figuring out where in the hell to put everything.

It’s about ten thirty at night and I’m pacing through the house, going from empty room to room, dodging spray machines and cans of paint and the occasional sawhorse. The place is heavily perfumed in eau de latex and I have to be careful not to brush against any of the walls because most of them are barely dry. There is plastic matting over all the wood floors, and the windowpanes are smeared with goo so their frames can be painted.

Being here all alone is creepy. Shadows are created, thanks to the streetlights down below, and every dark corner looks like a place someone could jump out at me from.

And then someone does.

I’m in the dining room when Wrath condenses out of thin air right in front of me. I yelp and pull a Chaplin, arms pinwheeling as I tap-dance backward. Rhage catches me from falling as Butch and V materialize behind the king. Z comes in last, sauntering in from the living room as if he’s been there all along.

Rhage: (to me) You okay there?

Butch: We could lay her down on a pair of sawhorses.

J.R.: Don’t you guys knock—

V: Oh, please.

Butch: How about the kitchen countertop?

J.R.: I’m fine!

Rhage: There’s carpeting on the third floor.

J.R.: You mean you’ve been here already?

Butch: No. Not at all. Us? Trespass? I vote for the third floor.

V: Or we could hang her ass up in a closet.

J.R.: Excuse me?

V: (shnigging) Goal is to keep you from knocking your shit out from the vapors. Come on. Work with me.

J.R.: I don’t have the—

Butch: Third floor.

Rhage: Third floor.

J.R.: (looking to Wrath for help) Really, I’m—

Wrath: Third floor.

Chaos reigns during the trip up the stairs in the form of deep male voices arguing with one another. As far as I can tell, the topic is treatment for fainting, and I hope to Christ the remedies aren’t inflicted on me. Somehow I don’t think cold showers, stink bombs, old episodes of Barney (evidently the annoyance factor is supposed to be restorative), shots of Lagavulin (which would serve only to knock me out entirely), or laps around the neighborhood naked fall under the accepted standard of care for light-headed humans. Although the trip to Saks doesn’t sound so bad.

The third floor of the new house is a big, open space—basically a finished attic. Total square feet is only a little less than the first apartment I had with my husband, and the Brothers reduce the place to the size of a doghouse. Their bodies are huge, and unless they’re standing right in the middle of the room, which has a cathedral ceiling, they have to stoop to fit under the sloping roof.

Wrath is the first to sit down, and he picks the spot against the far wall that is the head of the room. The rest circle around. I end up doing an Indian-style across from the king. Z is to my right. They are all dressed as they would for a meal at the mansion: Wrath in a muscle shirt and leathers; Phury and Butch wearing elegantly tailored designer casuals; V and Zsadist in nylon sweats and tight T-shirts; Rhage in a black button-down and dark blue jeans.

Wrath: What the hell are we supposed to ask you?

J.R.: Whatever you—

Rhage: I know! (takes cherry Tootsie Pop out of his pocket) Who do you like most? It’s me, right. Come on. you know it is. (unwraps the thing, pops it into mouth) Come onnnnnnn—

Butch: If it’s you, I will kill myself.

V: No, that just means she’s blind.

Butch: (shakes head in my direction) Poor dear.

Rhage: It has to be me.

V: She said she didn’t like you at first.

Rhage: (making point with Tootsie Pop) Ah, but I won her over, which is more than anyone can say about you, hot stuff.

J.R.: I don’t like anyone best.

Wrath: Right answer.

Rhage: She’s just sparing all of your feelings. (grins, becoming impossibly handsome) She’s so polite.

J.R.: (prayerfully) Next question?

Rhage: (wags eyebrows) Why do you like me best?

Wrath: Enough with the ego trip, Hollywood.

V: That’s his personality. So it’s a permanent vacation to la-la land, not a trip.

Butch: Which means it’s actually a surprise he won’t wear that Hawaiian shirt Mary got him.

Rhage: (under breath) I’d burn that eyesore, but it’s a lot of fun to take-off her.

Phury: Amen to that.

Butch: You have a Hawaiian shirt? You’re fucking kidding me.

Phury: No. But I like taking Cormia out of my clothes.

Butch: Respect. (pounds knuckles with Phury)

Wrath: Fine, I’ll ask a question. (The Brothers all quiet down.) Why the hell do you still jump when I turn up in front of you? It’s fucking annoying. Like I’m going to hurt you or some shit?

Rhage: She’s afraid you’ve left me behind and she’s not going to get to see me.

Wrath: Don’t make me stab another wall.

Rhage: (grins again) At least her contractors are still around, and she could get it fixed easy enough. (Bites down on Tootsie Pop.)

Butch: Wait, I know the answer. She’s afraid you’re going to tell her V’s got a brother she’s going to have to write about.

V: Whatever, cop. I’m an only.

Butch: Lucky her, considering you almost killed her—

Z: I know why.

All heads, including mine, turn to Zsadist. As usual, when he’s in a meeting, he’s sitting perfectly still, but his yellow stare is shrewd as an animal’s, tracking the people around him. Under the lights that are mounted along the ceiling, his scar is standing out with special depth.

Wrath: (to Z) So why does she jump?

Z: Because when you’re around she’s not quite sure where reality is. (glances at me) Isn’t that right.

J.R.: Yes.

At this moment, I recall that Z’s had the same problem a number of times—and it must have shown in my eyes, because he looks away quickly.

Wrath: (nodding with a kind of huh-that-makes-sense) Okay, cool.

Butch: I got a question. (grows serious…then channels that ass from Inside the Actors Studio) If you were a tree, what kind would you be?

Rhage: (amid laughter from the Brothers) I know, a crab apple. She bears fruit, but she’s cranky.

V: Nah, she’d he a telephone pole, not a tree. Trees have too much body.

Butch: (glaring at his roommate) Chill, V.

V: What? It’s true.

J.R.: I like the crab apple.

Rhage: (nodding at me with approval) I knew you’d agree with me over these steakheads.

Phury: How about a Dutch elm? They’re long and willowy.

V: And a dead species. At least I only insulted her figure. You gave her a disease that’s going to mottle her leaves.

J.R.: Thank you, Phury, that’s lovely.

Wrath: I vote for oak.

V: Please, that’s a total arboreal projection. You’re an oak and you assume everyone else is.

Wrath: Untrue. The rest of you asses are saplings.

Rhage: Personally, I’m a shaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaag bark hickory. For obvious reasons.

Butch: (laughs in Hollywood’s direction, then turns to me) I think she’s a Christmas tree. ’Cus she’s into the bling. (pounds my knuckles)

Wrath: Z? You got a tree?

Z: Poplar.

Rhage: Oh, I like those. Their leaves make a cool clapping sound when the wind goes through them.

Butch: Nice. I remember those from when I was a kid.

Phury: Those are friendly trees. Not snotty. I like that.

Wrath: Poplar is up for a vote. All in agreement say aye. (The Brothers all “aye.”) Any dissent? (silence) Motion is carried.(looks at me) You are a poplar.

I’d like to point out that this is precisely how things go with the Brothers. They decide. I follow. And incidentally, the common, lowly poplar is probably one of my favorite trees of all time.

Wrath: Next question. Favorite color?

Rhage: (raises hand) I know! Rhaging red.

Butch: Rhaging…(Busts exit laughing.) You are such an assaholic, you know that? A real assaholic.

Rhage: (nodding gravely) Thank you. I try to excel at everything I do.

V: We need to get him into Asses Anonymous.

Rhage: I’m not so sure about that…that Knitters Anonymous program didn’t do jack shit for you.

V: That’s because I don’t knit!

Rhage: (reaches over and grabs Dutch’s shoulder) God, denial is sad, isn’t it.

V: Listen—

Wrath: Black’s my favorite color.

Phury: I’m not sure black’s a color, my lord. Technically it’s the sum of all colors, so—

Wrath: Black’s a color. End of.

Butch: Phury, that ass-burning sensation you feel is because you just got booted with a royal decree.

Phury: (wincing) I believe you are right.

V: I like blue.

Rhage: Of course you do. It’s the color of my eyes.

V: Or a good facial bruise.

Butch: I’m all about gold. At least when it comes to metals.

V: And it suits you.

Rhage: I like blue, because V does. I want to be just like him when I grow up.

V: Then you’re going to need to go on a diet and stop wearing lifts.

Rhage: Bet you say that to all the girls you date. (Shakes head.) You make them shave, too, don’t you?

V: Better than having to hack them out of their stalls, like you do.

J.R.: I like black.

Wrath: Score! Now, next question—

V: How about making this more interesting.

Wrath: (cocks eyebrow up from behind his wraparounds) In what way?

V: (staring over at me) Truth or dare.

They all get quiet at this point, and I do not feel comfortable—although not because they are silent. I don’t trust V to play nice—and going by the tension in the room, neither do the Brothers.

V: Well? What’s it going to be?

If I go for truth, he’s going to hit me with something that’s either impossible to answer or way too revealing. If I go for dare…well, he can’t kill me with whatever he makes me do. I’m pretty sure the others would make sure I live through it.

J.R.: Dare.

V: Fine. I dare you to answer my question.

Butch: (frowning) That’s not the way it works.

V: It’s truth or dare. I gave her the choice. She picked the dare.

Wrath: Technically, he’s right. Although he’s fucking around.

V: Oh, I’m quite serious, true?

J.R.: Okay, what’s your question.

V: Why did you lie?

The question doesn’t surprise me, and it’s a private thing between him and me. And he already knows the answer, but he’s asking it here to cause problems. Which it will.

Wrath: (cutting in before I respond) Next question. Favorite food?

Rhage: A Rhage and Butch sandwich.

J.R.: (turning beet red) Oh, no, I—

Rhage: What? Like you’re going to want any V in there?

J.R.: No, I don’t think of you like—

Rhage: Look…(pats my knee, all that’s-okay-dear) fantasies are good. They’re healthy. It’s why Dutch’s skin glows like it does and his right palm is hairy—he wants me, too. So, really, I’m used to it.

J.R.: I don’t—

Butch: (laughing) Rhage, buddy, I hate to slow your roll, but I so don’t feel you like that.

Rhage: (wags brows) Now who needs a truth-or-dare?

V: You know. Hollywood, in the DSM-IV there’s a picture of your ugly mug next to “Narcissistic Disorder.”

Rhage: I know! I sat and posed for it. It was so sweet of them to call.

V: (barks out laughing) You are such a freak.

Wrath: Food, challa?

J.R.: I’m not a big foodie.

V: You don’t say.

Rhage: I like almost everything.

V: And again, you don’t say.

Rhage: Except olives. I just…meh. Meh on the olives. Olive oil is fine to cook with, though.

V: What a relief. The whole country of Italy was worried about their national economy.

Butch: I don’t like seafood.

Wrath: God, neither do I.

Phury: I can’t stomach anything with fish in it.

Z: No way.

V: I don’t even like the smell of the shit.

Rhage: Come to think of it…yeah, big meh on anything that had a fin on it or comes with a shell. Well, excluding nuts. I like nuts.

V: Go. Fig.

Butch: I love me a good steak.

Wrath: Lamb.

Phury: Lamb is fabulous.

Butch: Oh, yeah. With rosemary. Done on a grill. (rubs stomach) Anyone hungry?

Rhage: Yes, starved. (Everyone roles their eyes at this point.) Well, I’m a growing boy.

Butch: Which, considering how big your head already is—

V: Strains the bounds of credulity.

Rhage: I like all kinds of meat.

V: (laughs) Okay, I’m so not touching that.

Rhage: Which is kind of a surprise. (Grins.)

Wrath: Can we please get hack on track? Challa? Food?

The truth is, I’m loath to say anything and am disappointed to have the focus on me again. I love just watching the Brothers take the piss out of one another. Really, this vibe right here is what my days are like. I am among them, but not with them, if that makes any sense, and I’m always fascinated, wondering what they’re going to say and do next.

J.R.: It depends.

Rhage: Okay, build your own sundae for us, then. What’s on it? Oh…and don’t be embarrassed. I know you’re going to picture me serving it to you wearing nothing but a loincloth.

V: And your elf shoes. ’Cuz you’re mad hot with your little bells on.

Rhage: See? You totally love me. (Turns back in my direction.) Challa!

J.R.: I…er, I don’t eat ice cream. I mean, I love it, but I can’t eat it.

Rhage: (looks as if I have a horn growing out of my forehead) Why?

J.R.: Teeth problems. Too cold.

Rhage: Oh, God. That sucks…I mean, I love me some coffee ice cream with hot fudge on it.

V: That’s one thing I’ll agree with you on. No whipped cream shit or cherries for me.

Rhage: Yup. I’m a purist as well.

Phury: I love a good raspberry sherbet. On a hot summer night.

Wrath: Rocky Road. (Shakes head.) Although I’m probably just thinking of life as king with that one.

Butch: Me? Ben & Jerry’s Mint Chocolate Chunk.

Rhage: Okay, that’s another good one. Anything they make with Oreos, also very good.

Z: We just tried Nalla out with some vanilla. (Laughs quietly.) Loved it.

At this point the Brothers…they actually “Awwwwwww.” Then cover it up with a lot of scowling, as if they have to reestablish their masculinity.

Rhage: (looking at me) For real? Have you seen that kid? She’s like…spank gorgeous.

V: Yeah, ’cuz that’s the way you say, “My, that young is beautiful” in his language.

Rhage: Come on, V, you totally feel me on this one.

V: (ruefully) Yeah, I do. Man…my niece is the most perfect young on the planet. (Pounds knuckles with Rhage, then turns to Butch.) Isn’t she?

Butch: Beyond perfect. Into a whole ’nother category. She’s…

Wrath: Magic.

Phury: Total magic.

J.R.: She’s got you guys wrapped around her finger, doesn’t she.

Rhage: Absolutely—

Phury: Totally—

Butch: Wrapped tighter—

V: Than a drum.

Wrath: Completely.

Z: (looking over at me and positively glowing with pride) See? For a bunch of violent, antisocial nut jobs, they’re okay.

Wrath: Hey…did Challa ever answer the damn food question? (Resounding no echoes in the room.)

Butch: She passed on the ice cream. (glances at me) Why don’t you build us a sandwich. You can use me, by the way, in any fashion. (grins) No probs with that.

Phury: (smoothing over Butch’s comment) Or a meal. What kind of meal do you like?

J.R.: I don’t know. Well, anything my mother cooks. Roasted chicken. Lasagna—

Rhage: I love lasagna.

Phury: Me, too.

V: I like mine with sausage in it.

Rhage: Of course you do.

Wrath: (whistling through his teeth) Shut it, ladies. Chella?

J.R.: Roasted chicken with corn-bread stuffing made by my mother.

Wrath: Excellent choice—and wise of you. I was getting ready to make them vote again.

Rhage: (leaning over conspiratorially) We wouldn’t have given you fish, though. So you don’t need to worry.

J.R.: Thank you.

The Brothers keep talking, and I don’t really get asked much more, which is fine. I’m struck as they banter by how much they care about one another. The razzing never cuts to the bone; even V, who’s perfectly capable of cleaving someone in half verbally, sheathes his bladed tongue. As their voices bounce around the empty room, I close my eyes, thinking that I don’t ever want them to go.

When I open my lids again, the Brothers are gone. I am alone in my new old house, sitting cross-legged, staring at the blank wall where seconds before I saw Wrath so very clearly. The silence is a stark, sad contrast.

I stand up and my legs are stiff as I go over to the stairs and put my hand on the rail. I have no idea how long I’ve been up here, and when I look back to where we all sat, I see nothing but a stretch of wall-to-wall carpet under a row of ceiling lights.

I turn off those lights as I go down the stairs, and I pause at the second-story landing. I still don’t know where I’m going to write after we move in—which is causing agitation. There’s a bedroom that has a great view, but it’s small…

I reach the first floor and turn off more lights, making a circle around all the rooms. Before I leave the dark house, I pause in the den and look through the foyer and the living room out to the sunporch—which is the other candidate for my writing place.

I’m staring across the way when a car makes the corner down below on the street. As its headlights flash up through the banks of windows on the porch, I see Zsadist standing on the tile. He points downward with his finger a couple of times.

Right. I will write out there. I lift my hand and nod my head, so he’ll know the message has been received. With a flash of his yellow eyes he’s gone…but I’m not feeling so alone, even though the house is empty.

The sunporch is going to be a great place to work, I think to myself as I walk out to my car. Just perfect.

In Memoriam

What follows below is the last interview of Tohr and Wellsie together, which I conducted during the short time span between Lover Eternal and Lover Awakened. I’m reproducing it below in Wellsie’s memory and in memory of their unborn son.

December in Caldwell, New York, is a hunker-down kind of time. The days get dark at four in the afternoon, the snow begins to pile up as if it’s in training for January’s onslaughts, and the cold seeps into the very foundations and load-bearing walls of the houses.

It is in days after Thanksgiving that I come into town for more interviews with the Brothers. As usual, Fritz picks me up in Albany and drives me around in circles for two hours before taking me to the Brotherhood’s mansion. Tonight’s trip is even longer, but not because he’s obscuring the path more: To my discredit, I pick the first storm of the season to travel through. As the butler and I go along, the snow lashes against the Mercedes’ front windshield, but the doggen isn’t worried, and neither am I. For one thing, the car is built like a tank. For another, as stated by Fritz, Vishous has put chains on all four tires. We chow through the thickening blanket on the roads, the sole sedan out amidst municipal plows, trucks, and SUVs.

Eventually we pull into the Brotherhood’s compound and come to a stop in front of the massive stone castle they live in. As I get out of the car, snowflakes tickle my nose and land on my eyelashes, and I love it, but I’m chilled instantly. This doesn’t last long, though: Fritz and I go in through the vestibule together, and the outrageously beautiful foyer warms me just by its very sight. Doggen rush over to me as if I’m in danger of hypothermia, bringing slippers to replace my boots, tea for my belly, and a cashmere wrap. I’m stripped of my outdoor clothes like a child, wrapped up and Earl Grey’d and marched toward the stairs.

Wrath is waiting for me in his study…

(edited out)

…At this point, I leave Wrath’s study and head down to the foyer, where Fritz is waiting for me with my parka and my snow boots. Tohr is my next interview, and the butler is going to take me to the Brother’s house, as evidently he’s off rotation tonight.

I’m rebundled in my nor’easter clothes and get back in the Mercedes. The partition goes up, and Fritz and I chat using the intercom that links the front and the rear of the car. The trip is about twenty minutes, and man, the Merc holds steady in all the snow.

When we stop and stay that way, I figure we’re at Tohr’s and I unlatch my seat belt. Fritz opens my door and I see the low-slung modern house the Brother and Wellsie and John Matthew live in. The place looks incredibly welcoming in the snow. On its roof two chimneys are gently smoking, and in front of each of the windows pools of yellow light condense on top of the thick white ground cover. On their travels from cloud to earth, flakes hit these patches of illumination and are spotlit for a brief time before they join legions of their accumulated brethren.

Wellsie opens the back door, motions me in, and Fritz escorts me over. After bowing to Wellsie, he heads back to the Mercedes, and as the car turns around in the driveway, my hostess shuts the house’s door against the wind.

J.R.: What a storm, huh?

Wellsie: God. yes. Here, off with the coat. Come on.

I’m unwrapped again, but this time I’m so distracted by the smell coming from the kitchen that I barely notice my parka disappearing.

J.R.: What is that? (inhaling) Mmm…

Wellsie: (hanging up my coat and dropping a pair of L.L. Bean moccasins at my feet) Boots, off.

J.R.: (kicking the hoots free and putting my feet into—ahh, bliss—soft lambs wool) It smells like ginger?

Wellsie: You warm enough in just that sweater? You need another? No? All right. Just holler if you change your mind, though. (Heading into the kitchen and over to the stove.) This is for John.

J.R.: (following) He’s home? Were classes canceled tonight for the storm?

Wellsie: (lifting lid off a pot) Yes, but he wouldn’t have been able to go anyway. Let me finish this real quick and then we’ll go get Tohr.

J.R.: Is John okay?

Wellsie: He will be. Have a seat. You want tea?

J.R.: I’m fine, thank you.

The kitchen is all cherry and granite, with two gleaming ovens, a six-burner cooktop, and a Sub-Zero refrigerator done up to match the cabinets. Over in the windowed alcove there’s a glass-and-iron table set, and I sit down in the chair closest to the stove.

Wellsie has her hair up tonight, and as she stirs the rice in the pot she looks like a supermodel in a magazine ad for luxury kitchens. Beneath the loose black turtleneck she wears her belly is a little bigger than when I saw her last, and her hand keeps going to it, rubbing slowly. She’s glowing with health. Absolutely radiant.

Wellsie: Sec, here’s the tiling with vampires. We don’t get human viruses, but we have our own. And this time of year, as with human schools, the trainees trade off bugs. John came down with the aches and a sore throat last night and woke up with a fever this afternoon. Poor thing. (Shakes her head.) John is…a special kid. Truly special. And I love having him home with me—I just wish, tonight, it was for a different reason. (Looks up at me.) You know, it’s so weird. I’ve been doing my own thing for a long time…you can’t be mated to a Brother and not be really independent. But since John’s started living here, the house is empty when he’s not around. I can’t wait to see him by the time he gets home from the training center.

J.R.: I can understand that.

Wellsie: (rubbing belly again) John says he’s all excited for when the little one gets here—he wants to help out. I guess at the orphanage he was in, he liked to watch after the young.

J.R.: You know, I have to say you look great.

Wellsie: (rolls eyes) You’re kind, but I’m. like, big as a house already. I have no idea what size I’m going to be right before the young comes. Still…its ail good. The young is moving all the time, and I feel strong. My mother…she did well with her children. She had three, can you believe it? Three. And that was before modern medicine for my sister and my brother. So I think I’m going to be like her. My sister did just fine, (looks back down at the pot) This is what I remind Tohr of when he wakes up in the middle of the day. (turns off stove and gets serving spoon out of drawer) Let’s hope John will eat this time. He’s been off his food.

J.R.: Hey, what do you think of Rhage’s getting mated?

Wellsie: (spooning rice into bowl) Oh, my God, I love Mary. I think it’s great. The whole thing. Although Tohr was getting ready to kill Hollywood. Rhage…doesn’t cake direction well. Hell, none of them do. The Brothers…they’re like six lions. You can’t really herd them all that well. Tohr’s job is to try to keep them together, but it’s tough…especially with Zsadist being the way he is.

J.R.: Wrath said he’s on a rampage.

Wellsie: (shaking head and going to refrigerator) Bella…I pray for her. I pray every day. You realize it’s been six weeks now? Six weeks, (comes back with a plastic container that she puts into the microwave) I can’t imagine what those lessers…(clears throat, then hits buttons, little beeping sounds rising up, followed by a whirring) Well, anyway. Tohr’s not even trying to talk sense into Z. No one is. It’s like…something snapped in him with chat abduction. In a way—and I know this is going to come out wrong—I wish Z’d find her body. Otherwise there’s no closure, and he’ll be completely insane by New Year’s. And more dangerous than he already is. (microwave stops and beeps)

J.R.: Do you think it’s…I’m not sure what the word is…maybe astonishing that he cares as much as he does?

Wellsie: (pours ginger sauce on the rice, puts die container in the dishwasher, then takes out napkin and spoon) Totally astonishing. At first it gave me hope…you know, that he cared about someone, something. Now? I’m even more worried. I can’t see this sitch ending well. At all. Come on, let’s go to John’s room.

I follow Wellsie out of the kitchen and through a long living room that is done in a great mix of modern architectural details and antique furniture and art. At the far end we head into the wing of bedrooms. John’s is the last one before the master suite that anchors the left side of the house. As we get closer, I hear…

J R.: Is that—

Wellsie: Yup. Godzilla marathon. (pushes open door and says quietly) Hey. How are we doing?

John’s bedroom is navy blue, and the bureau, headboard, and desk have a Frank Lloyd Wright feel to them, all sleek wood. In the electric glow of the television I see John in the bed on his side, his skin as pale as his white sheets, his cheeks flaming red from fever. His eyes are squeezed shut, and he’s breathing through his open mouth with a slight wheeze. Tohr is right next to him, propped up against the headboard, the Brother’s huge body making John look like a two-year-old. Tohr’s arm is outstretched, and John is wrapped around it.

Tohr: (nodding at me and blowing a kiss to his shellan) Not good. I think the fever is higher. (As he says this, across the way on the TV, Godzilla lets out a roar and starts trampling buildings…kind of like what the virus is doing inside of John.)

Wellsie: (putting bowl down and leaning over Tohr) John?

John’s eyes flutter open and he tries to sit up, but Wellsie puts her hands on his cheeks and murmurs to him to stay down. As she talks to John softly, Tohr leans forward and puts his head on her shoulder. He’s exhausted, I realize, no doubt from staying up and worrying about John.

Looking at the three of them together, I am so happy for John, but also a little shaken. It’s hard not to picture him in his decrepit studio apartment in that rat-infested building, sick and alone. The what-if’s are just too disturbing. To keep my head from rattling, I focus on Tohr and Wellsie and the fact that they’ve made him part of a family now.

After a moment Wellsie sits down next to Tohr, who makes room for her by drawing up his legs. His free hand, the one John is not holding, goes to her belly.

Wellsie: (shaking her head) I’m calling Havers.

Tohr: Should we take him in?

Wellsie: That’ll he up to the clinic.

Tohr: Range Rovers got the chains on. You pull the trigger, I’m behind the wheel.

Wellsie: (patting his leg, then standing up) Which is exactly why I mated you.

Wellsie leaves and I hang in the doorway, feeling useless. God, there were all kinds of questions I had to ask Tohr, but now none of them matter.

J.R.: I should go.

Tohr: (rubbing his eyes) Yeah, probably. Sorry about all this.

J.R.: Please…not at all. You have to take care of him.

Tohr: (looking down at John) Yes, we do.

Wellsie returns, and the verdict from the doctor is that John has to go in. Fritz is called to come pick me up, but it’s going to take him time to get back, so I’m told how to lock the house after I leave. I follow as Tohr carries John in his arms down the hall, through the living room, and out to the kitchen. Instead of making the boy put on a jacket, John is wrapped in a duvet, and he has slippers on his feet that are like the L.L. Bean moccasins I’ve been lent—only smaller.

Wellsie gets into the back of the Range Rover, seat-belts herself in, and when Tohr settles John in her lap, she cradles the boy to her. As the door is shut, she looks up at me through the window’s glass, her face and red hair obscured by the reflection of the wall of the garage behind me. Our eyes meet and she lifts up her hand. I lift up mine.

Tohr: (to me) You all right here? You know how to reach me.

J.R.: Oh, I’m fine.

Tohr: Help yourself to anything in the fridge. Remotes for the TV in the den are right by my chair.

J.R.: Okay. Drive safely, and let me know how he is?

Tohr: We will.

Tohr puts his huge palm on my shoulder for a brief moment before he gets behind the wheel, puts the SUV in reverse, and backs out into the storm. The chains rattle on the concrete floor of the garage until they reach the lip of the snow; then all I hear is the deep growl of the engine and the crunch of millions of tiny flakes compacting under the tires.

Tohr K-turns and heads out, triggering the garage door. As the panels trundle shut, I have a last image of the Range Rover, its taillights flaring red through the billowing snow.

I go back into the house. Shut the door behind me. Listen.

The silence is scary. Not because I think there’s someone else in the house. But because the people who should be here are gone.

I go into the living room, sit down on one of the silk couches, and wait by the windows, as if maybe being able to see where Fritz is going to pull up will mean he comes a little faster. My parka’s in my lap and my boots are back on.

It seems like years until the Mercedes turns into the drive. I get to my feet, go to the front door as instructed, and step out. As I pivot around to lock up, I look way down the hall, to the stove where Wellsie had been cooking about a half hour ago. The pot that had John’s rice in it is where she left the thing, and so is the spoon she used.

I’m willing to bet that on a normal night, those things would never be left out like that. Wellsie keeps a tight ship.

I signal to Fritz that I need a sec; then I race back to the kitchen, clean the pot and the spoon, and put them to dry next to the sink because I don’t know where they belong. This time when I go out the front door, I lock it behind me. After a quick test to make sure I did it right, I piff through the snow toward the sedan. Fritz comes around and holds my door open for me, and just before I slide into all that leather, I look at the house. The glow from the windows doesn’t seem welcoming anymore…it strikes me now as if the light is plaintive. The house is waiting for them all to come back, so that its roof shelters more than just inanimate objects. Without its people? It’s merely a museum full of artifacts.

I get into the back of the sedan, and the butler takes us out into the storm. He drives carefully, just as I know Tohr did.