Us

In Demarest, New Jersey the time reads 10:56 pm. When last checked, the NYTimes showed Hillary Clinton ahead of Barack Obama in the New Hampshire Primary by 3 percent. The book, Sons and Lovers, is dog-eared at page 62. My bathrobe lies damp on the floor and the perfume of salts still lingers on my skin. In the World's Best Dad mug beside me, unmelted morsels of the hot chocolate I just finished chart an alluvial history of my sips. Dad just turned off the tv -- he is braving sleep -- so it is only me making sound on this keypad now. I am scared. Motion outside alerted the floodlights and they are bright, ready to spot any intruder or squirrel in the yard. When I was six, our burglar alarm sounded in the middle of the night, and I worried desperately that the tooth fairy had set it off while trying to enter the house. I saw it so clearly; Glinda the good witch had tried to slide the glass doors in the family room, triggered the alarm, and flying off in a huff, resolved never to visit me again. In the morning, though, evidence showed that she had found her way in. How silly of me. Then I was not afraid, but curious. Tonight, I am scared. Yes, there is the old American-suburban fear of bad guys and burglars. But there also something else. Tonight I cannot imagine the face or dress of what might enter, of that visitor who is due for a visit, and no shut window, locked door, or alarm will alert us to his presence when he comes. Yet, even more than my unease at this sly intrusion, I dread what might be gone in the morning, or even before then, say, when I wake at 2 am to use the bathroom, or toss to my right side at 5 am between bouts of fitful sleep. This is where I am now, hunched at the computer screen in my little pink bedroom, anxious, waiting, wishing I were not.