And there were the fridgeafator people. They were another kind of sharing, an even spookier kind. I hadn’t quite had nerve enough to tell Mattie about mine, but she might know anyway. Down low in her mind. Down below in her mind, where the blue-collar guys moved around in the zone.

Her guys and my guys, all part of the same strange labor union. And maybe it wasn’t an issue of morality per se at all. Some thing about it—about us—just felt dangerous.

And oh so attractive.

“I need time to think,” I said.

“This isn’t about what you think. What do youj%/for me?”

“So much it scares me.”

Before I could say anything else, my ears caught a familiar series of chord-changes. I turned toward the kid with the guitar. He had been working through a repertoire of early Dylan, but now he swung into something chuggy and up-tempo, something that made you want to grin and pat your hands together.

“Do you want to go fishin here in my fishin hole?

Said do you want to fish some, honey, here in my fishin hole?

You want to fish in my pond, baby, you better have a big long pole.”

“Fishin Blues.” Written by Sara Tidwell, originally performed by Sara and the Red-Top Boys, covered by everyone from Ma Rainey to the Lovin’

Spoonful. The raunchy ones had been her specialty, double-entendre so thin you could read a newspaper through it. . although reading hadn’t been Sara’s main interest, judging by her lyrics.

Before the kid could go on to the next verse, something about how you got to wiggle when you wobble and get that big one way down deep, The Castle Rockers ran off a brass flourish that said “Shut up, everybody, we’re comin atcha.” The kid quit playing his guitar; the juggler began catching his Indian clubs and dropping them swiftly onto the grass in a line. The Rockers launched themselves into an extremely evil Sousa march, music to commit serial murders by, and Kyra came running back to us.

“The jugster’s done. Will you tell me the story, Mike? Hansel and Panzel?”

“It’s Hansel and Gretel,” I said, “and I’ll be happy to. But let’s go where it’s a little quieter, okay? The band is giving me a headache.”

“Music hurt your headie?” ’5 little bit.”

“We’ll go by Mattie’s car, then.”

“Good thought.” Kyra ran ahead to stake out a bench on the edge of the common. Mattie gave me a long warm look, then her hand. I took it. Our fingers folded together as if they had been doing it for years. I thought, I’d like it to be slow, both of us hardly moving at all. At first, anyway. And would I bring my nicest, longest pole? I think you could count on that. And then, afterward, we’d talk.

Maybe until we could see the furniture in the first early light. When you’re in bed with someone you love, particularly for the first time, five o’clock seems almost holy. “You need a vacation from your own thoughts,” Mattie said. “I bet most writers do from time to time.”

“That’s probably true.”

“I wish we were home,” she said, and I couldn’t tell if her fierceness was real or pretend. “I’d kiss you until this whole conversation became irrelevant. And if there were second thoughts, at least you’d be having them in my bed.” I turned my face into the red light of the westering sun. “Here or there, at this hour Ki would still be up.”

“True,” she said, sounding uncharacteristically glum. “True.”

Kyra reached a bench near the sign reading TOWN COMMON PARKING and climbed up on it, holding the little stuffed dog from Mickey D’s in one hand. I tried to pull my hand away as we approached her and Mat-tie held it firm. “It’s all right, Mike. At V.B.S. they hold hands with their friends everywhere they go. It’s big people who make it into a big deal.” She stopped, looked at me. “I want you to know something. Maybe it won’t matter to you, but it does to me. There wasn’t anyone before Lance and no one after. If you come to me, you’ll be my second. I’m not going to talk with you about this again, either. Saying please is all right, but I won’t beg.”

“I don’t—”

“There’s a pot with tomato plants in it by the trailer steps.

I’ll leave a key under it. Don’t think. Just come.”

“Not tonight, Mattie. I can’t.”

“You can,” she replied. “Hurry up, slowpokes!” Kyra cried, bouncing on the bench. “He’s the slow one!” Mattie called back, and poked me in the ribs. Then, in a much lower voice: “You are, too.”

She unwound her hand from mine and ran toward her daughter, her brown legs scissoring below the hem of the white dress.

In my version of “Hansel and Gretel” the witch was named Depravia. Kyra stared at me with huge eyes when I got to the part where Depravia asks Hansel to poke out his finger so she can see how plump he’s getting. “Is it too scary?” I asked. Ki shook her head emphatically. I glanced at Mattie to make sure. She nodded and waved a hand for me to go on, so I finished the story. Depravia went into the oven and Gretel found her secret stash of winning lottery tickets. The kids bought a Jet Ski and lived happily ever after on the eastern side of Dark Score Lake. By then The Castle Rockers were slaughtering Gershwin and sunset was nigh. I carried Kyra to Scoutie and strapped her in. I remembered the first time I’d helped put the kid into her car-seat, and the inadvertent press of Mattie’s breast. “I hope there isn’t a bad dream for you in that story,” I said. Until I heard it coming out of my own mouth, I hadn’t realized how fundamentally awful that one is. “I won’t have bad dreams,” Kyra said matter-of-factly. “The fridgeafator people will keep them away.”

Then, carefully, reminding herself: “Ree-fridge-a-rator.” She turned to Mattie. “Show him the crosspatch, Mommy-bommy.”

“Crossword. But thanks, I would’ve forgotten.” She thumbed open the glove compartment and took out a folded sheet of paper. “It was on the fridge this morning. I copied it down because Ki said you’d know what it meant. She said you do crossword puzzles. Well, she said crosspatches, but I got the idea.”

Had I told Kyra that I did crosswords? Almost certainly not. Did it surprise me that she knew? Not at all. I took the sheet of paper, unfolded it, and looked at what was printed there: d go W “Is it a crosspatch puzzle, Mike?” Kyra asked.

“I guess so—a very simple one. But if it means something, I don’t know what it is. May I keep this?”

“Yes,” Mattie said.

I walked her around to the driver’s side of the Scout, reaching for her hand again as we went. “Just give me a little time. I know that’s supposed to be the girl’s line, but—”

“Take the time,” she said. “Just don’t take too much.”

I didn’t want to take any, which was just the problem. The sex would be great, I knew that. But after?

There might be an after, though. I knew it and she did, too. With Mattie, “after” was a real possibility. The idea was a little scary, a little wonderful.

I kissed the corner of her mouth. She laughed and grabbed me by the earlobe. “You can do better,” she said, then looked at Ki, who was sitting in her car-seat and gazing at us interestedly. “But I’ll let you offthis time.”

“Kiss Ki!” Kyra called, holding out her arms, so I went around and kissed Ki. Driving home, wearing my dark glasses to cut the glare of the setting sun, it occurred to me that maybe I could be Kyra Devore’s father. That seemed almost as attractive to me as going to bed with her mother, which was a measure of how deep I was in. And going deeper, maybe.

Deeper still.

Sara Laughs seemed very empty after having Mattie in my arms—a sleeping head without dreams. I checked the letters on the fridge, saw nothing there but the normal scatter, and got a beer. I went out on the deck to drink it while I watched the last of the sunset. I tried to think about the refrigerator people and crosspatches that had appeared on both refrigerators: “go down nineteen” on Lane Forty-two and “go down ninety-two” on Wasp Hill Road. Different vectors from the land to the lake? Different spots on The Street? Shit, who knew?