A. Homes - This Book Will Save Your Life

"That's your grandfather's chin," Richard says.

"You can see where it all comes from, who it belongs to."

And so they sit, the three of them looking into the mirror, looking at Ben, looking at themselves. They sit, and then there is a shudder, the lights dim and then brighten, and a few seconds later the room goes dark, the air stops.

The emergency lights click on — the room fills with a stale orange glow.

"What do you think it is?" she asks.

"It's been hot," Richard says. "We've had high electrical demand."

Ben goes to the window. "The good news is — the lights are on out there." He points twenty floors down.

"We should go to dinner," she says. "Even if we just go somewhere nearby, it's stifling to just sit here."

"If there's no power, there's no elevator, and you have rabies," Richard says.

"I forgot."

He wants to turn on the TV, wants to see what happened, wants pictures, information, instantaneous everything. Richard picks up the phone, dialing 0.

"It's not us personally, it is this side of the street," the man at the front desk says. "It is the grid, the grid has gone bad."

"Any idea when the power will go back on?" Richard asks.

"When the grid is good," he says. "Meanwhile, I can send something up to you, a bottle of white wine, some pasta — we still have gas and are boiling water on the stove."

Security guards with flashlights go up and down the hall, knocking on the doors, counting how many people are in-house and passing out flashlights. "Please stay in your rooms until lights are restored. If you have to leave, use the fire stairs at the far end of the hall and take your flashlight. The fire stairs are staffed and secure."

"Why don't I go down and pick something up?" Ben says. "I can take the stairs. What do you want — pizza, sushi, Chinese?"

"Do you have a menu?" she asks. "It's hard to order without a menu."

"Think of what you like and then name it," Richard says.

"Ginger shrimp," she says, "and if they don't have that, some other spicy shrimp, just not in tomato sauce."

"And?"

"Steamed vegetables with chicken, the sauce on the side," she says. "Brown rice, and some spare ribs."

"And you?" Ben asks his father.

"Oh, steamed vegetable dumplings, and maybe, if they have it, soft-shelled crabs."

"You're still eating soft-shelled crabs from Chinese restaurants?" she asks.

"Yes, why?"

"That's what you ate twenty years ago."

"I still like it," he says, giving Ben a wad of cash.

"And some Tylenol," she says. "Can you get me some Tylenol?"

"He's a good kid," she says when he's gone. "He's great."

They are alone. Self-conscious, he goes to the window. He stands at the glass, looking out; it is not a luminous city, but, like all American cities, it glows in the dark. There are enormous billboards like beacons that light automatically at dusk, drawing all eyes to movie-star faces forty feet tall. "Coming Soon." "Opens Friday."

He steps away from the window and looks at her. "You seem agitated."

"It's been a strange day."

"Breathe," he says.

"What?"

He goes to her, puts one of her hands on her chest, the other on her belly. "Close your eyes and breathe into this hand, fill your back, your belly; then slowly let the air out; and when you are ready, breathe in again."

"I must have a fever," she says.

There is a knock at the door; a red-faced porter hands Richard a bottle of wine — "From the concierge. I carried it against my heart, I hope I did not make it too hot." The hallway is humming, the emergency lights, the red "Exit" signs, all of it seeming to stir the swirling pattern on the carpet. Richard gives the man twenty dollars.

Ben returns with two huge shopping bags of food and a bunch of outdoor candles he bought at the ninety-nine-cent store. They spread the food out on the coffee table. The candles are lit; Richard pours a glass of wine for everyone.

"A feast," she says, propping her leg up on the sofa.

"An indoor picnic," Richard says, bringing a pillow for under her leg.

The room is filled with a warm, buttery glow.

"This is delicious; where is it from?" she asks.

"If you saw the place you wouldn't be happy," Ben says.

"Is that what it's called?"

"No, but I figured it was OK — it had a Health Department A' rating and there were a lot of people in there eating."

She takes a couple of Tylenol, washing them down with the wine. Richard refills their glasses, and slowly the whole family gets stoned from the lack of light, of air, the MSG, the wine.

And although there is a great and likely unbridgeable divide between the three of them, there is also a sense they are together, there for each other as much as they can bear to be, and though it might not be the fullness that one wants, and though it might not be enough, it is something, it is more than nothing.

"DO YOU EVER think about how things might have been different, how my life might have been if you didn't get divorced?" Ben asks no one in particular.

"Did we ever actually get divorced?" Richard asks his ex-wife.

"What are you talking about?" She sits up, splashing wine.

"I can't remember if we ever signed divorce papers."

"I signed divorce papers years ago," she says.

"At whose request?"

"Mine," she says. "I like things organized — dot the 'i's, cross the 't's."

"I was asking about me," Ben says. "Do you ever think about how it would have been different for me?"

"Yes," Richard says. "I think about it a lot."

"If this was the end of the world, the last conversation we'd ever have — what would we say?" Ben asks.

"Is it something you think about?" Richard asks. "How things would have been — the end of the world? It's all very fragile, isn't it — our time here."

"I don't like games like this," she says.

"Well, I just want to say that if this was the end of the world, right now, it would be OK with me," Ben says.

"If this was the end of the world, I personally would wonder what was going to happen next — the world as we know it is not all that there is; there is more, something larger than any of us," Richard says.

"If this was the end of the world," she says, interrupting, "I would stay up talking to you, but it's not, so I'm going to lie down." Richard helps her off the sofa. "It's been a very long day, I have to get up early, and if I don't go to sleep now, everything will be ruined."

Richard and Ben follow her into the bedroom and lie on the beds, while she goes into the bathroom.

"We should stay the night," Richard says to Ben.

"What about Malibu?"

"He'll be OK — he has food and water, and the door is cracked open so he can go out."

"I think I should go home with her," Ben says softly from his bed. "Summer's almost over, the stuff for the donut shop has all been ordered, and I can always fly out and help with the installation."

"I want more," Richard says, from the other bed. "I want to go to Disneyland again, and I want to go to Knotts Berry Farm; I heard they have a really good roller coaster. I want to go all kinds of places with you, maybe take one of those bike trips across France — do you like riding a bike?"

"I guess."

"We can train — if we start now, we'll be ready by next spring."

"OK."

"Do you want to take Malibu back to New York with you?"

"I don't think he'd like being alone in the apartment all day, and, besides, you need him."

She comes out of the bathroom in a T-shirt and climbs into the bed where Richard is. "Night," she says.

Ben says nothing more, and Richard realizes that the boy has fallen asleep.

Richard thinks of leaving, of getting up and going, but instead he climbs under the covers next to her — her body bends to accommodate him.