PROLOGUE

  Anuradhapura, Sri Lanka

May 14, 1985

         The red and silver Public Transportation Board bus growled to life, and with a grinding of gears, lumbered down the narrow dirt road.  The soldiers on board were dressed in the uniforms of the Sri Lankan army, complete with helmets.  Some sat impassively, others fidgeted with their weapons, others spoke softly with their seat mates.  All swayed and bounced with the movements of the bus on the rough road.  All had the glazed eyes of experienced killers.

         The PTB bus crawled through a veil of dust onto the paved road.  Now that they were out in public, the soldiers all sat erect and somewhat stiffly, moving only to wipe their sweaty hands on their pants.  The faces of the older soldiers were rapt with grim determination for the mission that lay ahead.  On the younger faces, fear nipped at the edges of murderous scowls.

         As the bus approached Anuradhapura, an officer barked a command, and metallic sounds of clicking and sliding filled the bus as the soldiers checked their weapons.  Standing next to the driver, the officer peered out the window, looking for signs of trouble.  His right hand, holding a pistol, was stretched out behind him, motioning for his troops to remain calm but at the ready.

         The officer ordered the driver to slow down as he made the last turn toward the shrine.  Like a predator stalking its prey, the bus crept forward.  The prey paid no attention.

         Heat and dust shrouded the sacred bo tree that day.  People moved slowly; monkeys sat in the shade of the stone walls of the temple; dogs stretched out in scarce shadows.  Even the crows were subdued.  In the distance, vehicles emerged through the shimmering haze as if from another reality.

         Wesley Daniel Owen stood beneath the branches of the tree, as the image of sluicing himself with cold water played in his mind.  Not even the Santa Ana's back home in southern California were as bad as this.

         Pilgrims, heads bowed, slowly approached the bo tree, their bare feet raising little clouds of dust on the road.  Every so often, one would spit a red bomb of betel juice and saliva, causing small explosions in the dust.  Dust formed a patina on everything: the people, the flowers they carried as offerings, the orange robes of the monks, the monkeys, the dogs, the crows, the tree itself.

         Wesley wrinkled his nose as a gust of wind assailed him with the odor of rotting garbage, made particularly cloying by the air heavy with heat and dust.  And with the garbage came the flies—the only creatures flourishing in the uncomfortable conditions.  People languidly brushed them away from their faces.  It was a double burden for people with infants and small children.  Occasionally a dog stirred from its slumber and snapped one out of the air, chewing with lips curled as it settled back into sleep. 

         This day was not ritually special, so no drumming, horn blowing, or chanting labored against the heavy air.  It was a day of simple piety, containing only the quieter sounds of private prayer, punctuated now and again by the cries of a child.  The loudest continual sound came from the leaves of the bo tree rustling on and off in the hot breeze. 

         Wesley marveled at the calm, stately power of this tree, descended from the one in northern India whose spreading boughs sheltered the Lord Buddha as he attained nirvana in the year 544 B.C.  This bo was started from a branch brought by one of the Lord's disciples and planted at this site as a means of consecrating Buddhism on the island.  As the "venerable great one"—the Sri Maha Bodhi—it stood as a beacon of spiritual enlightenment in an otherwise bleak and forsaken region.

         In spite of the uncomfortable conditions, Wesley actually was feeling pretty good.  The chief monk of the local temple had finally agreed to an interview that morning.  He would be the last piece in the puzzle for Wesley's cultural anthropology dissertation: The Role of Religion in Modernization: The Case of Sri Lanka.  Wesley's mind raced ahead to the writing that awaited him at UCLA, but he quickly erased the thought.  He wanted to focus on the present; the future would take care of itself.  In this, he had become a good Buddhist.

         Wesley's wife, Adela, and five-year old daughter, Sunny, had arrived from the nearby town a short time ago to spend the afternoon.  The three of them had just had lunch, and now Adela and Sunny were over with the monkeys.  Sunny had given them all names.

         "Daddy, Daddy, come see.  Mary has a new baby."

         "In a minute, sweetheart."  He had just taken out his notebook to record his observations of the activity around the tree.

         "Now I gotta wee wee, Daddy."

         "Sunny, honey, I'm busy right now.  Go ask Mommy."

         "Wesley, this is another one you owe me.  Come on, urchin, let's go behind this wall."

         He began to write, stopping every few seconds to brush flies from his face.  He'd finished a page when a clattering sound made him look up, in time to see a large red and silver Public Transportation Board bus lurch to a stop.  The doors creaked open and soldiers began filing out.  This wasn't unusual because being in the army didn't absolve them of their religious duties.  And it was fairly common to see them riding on a PTB bus, given the scarce resources of the Sri Lankan Army.

         Wesley wrote in his notebook, "PTB bus arrives, carrying soldiers, who—"  He stopped writing and looked up, brows knitted.  Why were they carrying their weapons?  And why were they wearing tennis shoes and sandals instead of boots?

         Heart racing, he turned and leapt over the wall.  He grabbed his wife and daughter and whispered, "Get down," as he tugged on their arms.

         Just as they ducked behind the wall, automatic weapons fire exploded.  The terrible clatter, mixed with yelling and screaming, tore through the hot, stuporous air, shattering the tranquility of the bo tree.

         Adela was screaming and Sunny was crying, "What's happening, Daddy?  Mommy, what's that noise?"

         Wesley pulled her close, putting his shaking finger to his lips.  "Shush, Sunny.  It'll be all right."

         He reached over and grabbed Adela's shoulder, "Sweetheart, stop it.  Please.  They might hear us."

         "Be quiet, Mommy," Sunny sobbed.

         They were still firing.  Damn it, that was enough.  Wesley closed his eyes and the terrible sound faded.  And in his mind, he vaulted over the wall and started running toward the shooters, waving his arms and shouting, "Stop it."  Bullets exploded in the dirt around his feet and whizzed past his ears.  He rushed over to the nearest shooter, ripped the gun out of his hands and flung it away.  Eyes wide with terror, the man turned and ran—

         Wesley's fantasy winked off as Adela clutched at his arm and whispered, "They've stopped shooting."

         He blinked rapidly, shook his head, and the door to his mind opened to groans and cries rising from the carnage on the other side of the wall, followed by short bursts of gunfire.  They were finishing off the wounded!  Finally the agonized sounds stopped, and so did the firing.  Then there was shouting.  "Come on!  Get in the bus!  Let's go!  Hurry up!"  The language was Tamil.

         Wesley then knew for certain what he'd already suspected.  The attackers were members of the LTTE—Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam, Tigers, for short, a rebel force demanding independence from Sri Lanka for their state of "Eelam."  Their methods were simple.  And brutal:  Massacring Sinhalese civilians to provoke the Sri Lankan Army into massacring Tamil civilians, thus stoking the fire of ethnic polarization.  But this was the first time they'd struck at such a sacred religious site.  My God, Wesley thought, blood on the leaves of the Sri Maha Bodhi!

         "Are they gonna shoot us too, Daddy?"  Sunny looked up at him, brown-sugar eyes pooled with tears and bottom lip trembling.

         "No, baby.  No, they won't.  They're leaving now.  They haven't seen us.  Don't worry.  We're gonna be all right."

         "Oh damn, Wesley.  Oh damn!"  Adela's face was twisted in terror.

         He stroked her hair.  "I know, sweetheart.  I know.  But it's over; they're leaving."

         "When can we look, Daddy?"

         "Not yet.  Daddy'll look first.  Okay?"

         Wesley peeked over the wall and saw the attackers running toward the bus.  Something else caught his eye.  Something familiar.  It was his notebook, lying open in the dust, splattered with blood.  Suddenly, Adela screamed.

         Wesley spun around.  His jaw muscles tightened, and his hands balled into fists.

         A young woman dressed in oversized army fatigues was pointing her AK-47 at them.  She smiled like death come to claim more victims.  Wesley tried to think of something to say, to beg for their lives, to threaten, anything, when Sunny stepped forward and sobbed, "Please don't hurt my mommy and daddy."

         Wesley reached out to her.  "Sunny, don't—"

         "No, it is all right."  The Tiger slung the weapon around to her back and knelt.  Her hard smile struggled to be gentle, like it hadn't had much practice.  "Don't worry, darling, you are not my enemy.  I won't hurt you."

         Movement off in the distance caught Wesley's eye.  He looked up and saw a police constable standing behind a tree and aiming his rifle in their direction.

         "Stop, don't shoot!" Wesley yelled, waving his arms.

         The Tiger spun around and fired.  Bullets ripped into the tree as spent cartridge cases jangled on the ground and the smell of burnt gunpowder charged the air.  Adela moaned.  Sunny screamed and put her hands over her ears.  Grimacing, Wesley gathered her into his arms.  The Tiger stalked forward, crouching low, when suddenly the rifle flew out from behind the tree and the constable took off in the opposite direction.  She ran after him a short distance, stopped, raised her weapon, cursed, and lowered it.  She walked over and picked up the abandoned rifle.

         As she was walking back, two men ran around the end of the wall, saw the American family, and raised their weapons.  The female Tiger shouted, "No!  Leave them alone.  He saved my life.  Take this and go back to the bus.  I will follow you in a minute."  She tossed the rifle to one of them.

         The Tiger again knelt in front of Sunny, the fierce hardness of her face gradually softening.  She held out her arms toward the little girl.

         Reluctantly, Wesley let go of her, and she slowly took the few steps toward the Tiger.

         Adela shouted "No!" and tried to snatch her back. 

         As the Tiger glared at her, Wesley grabbed his wife's arm.  "Don't.  It'll be okay."

         The young woman said, softly, "Darling, I'm sorry for scaring you.  Here, let me dry your tears."  She reached out and dabbed at Sunny's face with her cuff.  Then she hugged her and whispered something in her ear.  Sunny nodded, and the Tiger said, "Now I have to go."

         She stood up and faced Wesley.  She looked to be in her late teens, and there was a hint of beauty beneath the grime and bitterness smearing her face.  As the Tiger stared at him, her expression softened for an instant, as if she was trying to express gratitude.  But then her dark eyes glazed over and the fierce leer returned.  It almost seemed involuntary—the look of the fanatic.  Wesley shuddered.

         "I am in your debt," she said.

         "I was thinking about my wife and daughter," Wesley replied.

         "Yes, I know.  Goodbye."  She bowed her head slightly and waved at Sunny. "Goodbye, darling."

         "Bye, bye."  Sunny waved back as the Tiger disappeared around the corner.  Wesley was shaking, and Adela was crying.

         "What's wrong?" Sunny asked.  "She's my friend; she won't let them hurt us."

PART ONE

Better mad with the rest of the world than wise alone.

—Baltasar Gracián

CHAPTER ONE

Cerritos, California

July 1, 1996

         The Second Summer Session had just begun, and it was going on ten o'clock in the evening.  Only a few cars remained in the faculty parking lot as Wesley Daniel Owen walked toward it.  He supposed that made him one of the more diligent instructors, bucking the tradition of dismissing class early the first night.  Or one of the more stupid ones.

         Tired and glad to be going home, he reached his old silver Accord, rendered yellow-gray in the dim light, sitting alone and forlorn in the middle of the lot.  A chatter of voices passed behind him and trailed off toward the distant student lots.  The cold orb of the full moon hung indifferently in the summer night's sky.

         The whoop, whoop, whoop of a car alarm pierced the darkness at the end of the lot.  Wesley had always hated those damn things, going off by accident all the time.  He thought even less of the people who can't unlock their cars without setting them off.  His strategy was to drive an old wreck that nobody would ever think of stealing in the first place, although he had to admit this wasn't entirely a strategy by choice.

         He unlocked the door, flung his briefcase onto the back seat, and got in behind the wheel.  Just as he was about to start the engine, he noticed something strange about the car with the whooping alarm.  It looked like some kids were trying to jimmy the door open.  Wesley's heart began to race.  The little shits were trying to steal that car!  A new looking Lexus.  Right there in the faculty parking lot!  We'll see about that, he thought, as his mind turned in on itself.

         Wes started the Accord, put the lights on high beam, and floored the accelerator, aiming for the Lexus.  At the same time, he was punching 911 on his cellular phone.  The three would-be car thieves looked up as he was bearing down on them.  Fear was etched on their faces.  They started to run but were too late.  Wes hit the brakes and yanked the wheel to the left, skidding sideways right up to the side of the Lexus.  The Accord stopped about a foot away, just enough to trap the perps between the two cars.  He grabbed the parking club off the floor, got out, leaned across the top of the Accord, and pointed his "weapon" at the three trembling assholes.

         "Stay right where you are."

         "Please don't shoot us.  Please—"

         "Shut up and save it for the cops."  He pushed send.  "Hello?  I'm Professor Wesley Daniel Owen, and I'm in faculty parking lot B of the State University of Southern California in Cerritos.  I've made a citizen's arrest."

         The sound of squealing tires shredded the fantasy.  Wesley slowly peeked over the dashboard.  The Lexus, followed by another car, sped down Campus Drive and disappeared around a curve.  He sat all the way up, swallowing hard and running his hand through his hair.  They weren't exactly kids.  He gripped the steering wheel with shaking hands.  More like strapping eighteen-nineteen year olds.

         Wesley called 911 on the cell phone and reported the theft, giving a description of the car and the thieves, along with the direction they had driven in.  But he didn't give his name.  After he punched off, he sat there for a few seconds, trying to decide whether he should wait for the police.

         No, fuck it, he was outta there.  Anybody who owned a Lexus was sure to have insurance.  And, besides, the cops might catch them.  Wesley started the engine and took off, buoyed by his cynicism.

         But after he'd pulled out of the parking lot, the false bravado began to melt away, and his inner voice chimed in with its devil's advocate act.  Right on time.

         You should have done something to stop them.  Dad would have.

         Wesley sighed.  I'm not him; I'm not a cop.

         Yes, but you could at least have called 911 when you first saw them.  You didn't have to try to stop them yourself.

         But then I would've been trapped here.  I couldn't have left or the thieves might have come after me.  And if I'd waited for the cops, and there's a trial, I'd have to testify.

         And you're afraid their gang buddies would come after you.

         Actually, it'd just be too much of a hassle.

         Uh huh.

         Maybe I'm just a coward.  You know, a chicken, pantywaist, poltroon, recreant, sissy, wimp, wuss, yellowbelly.  Such people do exist, you know.

         Yeah, but you're not one of them.  You just think you are.

         Right now I'm too tired to debate the subtle distinction between the objective and the subjective.

         Intellectualize all you want, but there's a principle here.

         Wesley wondered where he'd heard that before.  Then he remembered.

 *   *   *

         The boy, just turned eight, is awakened by his parents shouting.  He tip-toes down the hall and stands outside their bedroom door.  It stands open a crack, just enough for him to see and hear them.  He stands there, trying to control his trembling as he watches and listens.

         "Frank, that was one stupid thing to do," his mother says, her voice pitched in anger. "Chasing those bank robbers into that alley alone.  Without even calling for backup.  Stupid!  Do you hear me?  Stupid!"

         "Yeah, I hear you," his father replies.  "Now, you listen to me."  He grabs her shoulders, which causes the boy to crunch his eyes shut, clench his teeth, and hold his breath.  "There wasn't time.  They were about to get away.  What did you want me to do?  Just let them go?  They murdered a teller and a security guard, for God's sake!"

         The boy opens his eyes in time to see her pulling away from him.  A small smile struggles on his face.

         "Yeah, and Frank has to chase them down all by himself to prove what a big bad detective he is."

         "Oh, come on, Louise, I was just doing my job.  Nothing happened.  I nailed them and that was that."

         "They shot at you!  I wouldn't call that nothing happened.  You could've gotten yourself killed."

         "Aw, don't cry, honey."  He tries to hold her, but she won't let him.  Their son again smiles wanly through his tears.  "I knew what I was doing.  Can't you understand?  It was the principle of the thing."

          The boy can no longer hold back the emotional torrent that has been pressing for release.  He lets out a little whimper as the tears flow down his cheeks.  He can taste the salt in them.

         Now the fire flashes in his mother's eyes.  "The principle!  The principle!  I suppose your damn principles come before—"

         "Shush."  Irritation buzzes in his father's voice.  "Wesley's at the door.  Can't you hear him?  He's crying.  Shit."

         The door opens and Wesley feels a pang of sadness when he sees his mother's red, twisted, tear-streaked face.

         "Wesley, baby, come here.  Don't be scared.  It's all right."

         He rushes into her arms, his body heaving with sobs.

         "You-you were fighting again," he whispers breathlessly, hoping his father wouldn't hear.

         "Now, son—"

         "Not now, Frank."  His mother's stern voice has blanketed Wesley with the warmth of security, and her sweet, mysterious smell has filled him with secret pleasure.

 *   *   *

         Wesley drove on, consumed with an analysis of principles.  To his way of thinking, principles led people to excessive behavior.  Like his brother, Artie, who had flown to Vietnam on the wings of a principle.  And he had died there, his death-shroud a principle.  Wesley's father and Artie together had held a monopoly on principles in the family.  Not that Wesley's mother and he really wanted any.  No, they were the pragmatists.  His father and brother would take the moral high road; his mother and he would stay on the lower one, clearing away the rocks and filling in the potholes.  Wesley's mother--one of the world's few practical artists.

         A couple of miles down the road Wesley noticed red and blue lights flashing ahead on the right.  He slowed and saw that the cops had pulled over the Lexus from the parking lot.  Two erstwhile thieves were sitting in the back seat of a police car.  Hot damn, he thought, smiling.

CHAPTER TWO

         Had you called them sooner, they would've nailed them all.

         What do you want from me?

         Just a little more courage and a little less fantasy.

         I'll see what I can do.

         Wesley drove the rest of the way home and pulled into the garage, wondering what was on the tube.  News and reruns, what else?  What was for dinner?  Oh, some kind of exotic, tasteless Trader Joe's microwave special from the freezer.

         "I'm home," he yelled after opening the back door.

         "I'm on the phone," Sunny yelled back. 

         Well, at least everything was de rigueur on the home front.

         Romero, their black pug, sauntered around the corner in his typical regal fashion, took a few more steps, then sat on his haunches, his big eyes glistening and little butt quivering with expectation.

         "Come'er, boy," Wesley called out, clapping.  Romero leapt into his arms, a bundle of pure doggie joy and doggie slobber.  "At least you're happy to see me.  That's right, give the old man a kiss.  No one'll think you're gay."

         Sunny was next into the kitchen.  "Father, like, who are you talking to?  Oh right, to your best friend."

         "How about a kiss from my best daughter?"

         "Not with doggie spit all over your face."

         "Come here and gimme a kiss."

         "Get away!  Eeuuw!  I'm gonna throw up.  And stop barking, you little black beastie."

         She ran down the hall, giggling, toward her room.  Wesley followed, walking like Frankenstein, Romero the Devil Dog by his side.

         "Aarrghh.  Come to me, my little flower."

         She dashed into her room and slammed the door.  Her two pursuers waited, and sure enough, she stuck her head out.  Wesley put his arms out and stiffly lurched toward her, Romero and he growling in harmony.  She pulled her head back in and slammed the door, still giggling.  Even though she was sixteen, she still had enough of the little girl in her to play some of their old games.  She was the love of her father's life.

         Wesley went back to the kitchen and examined the liquor supply.  Scotch?  Bourbon?  Vodka?  Gin?  No, just some old red wine.  That would have to do.  Just enough for numbing.  He poured himself a glass and looked in the freezer for something to eat. Nothing but something wrapped in plastic that might have been chicken at one time and a couple of microwavable dinners.  The realization that he needed to do some grocery shopping arrived as his appetite fled.

         He slammed the door in disgust, rattling the cookie jar on top of the refrigerator, and turned to face their round oak kitchen table.  The center of his universe.  His sanctuary of the mundane.  He sat down, and Romero curled up on the rug underneath.

         Wesley thought about watching the news to see how much of a lead the Dodgers had blown that night.  But before he could click on the TV, Sunny walked up holding something behind her back.  She was struggling to keep a straight face, but the imp inside kept peeking through.

         "Hey, Dad-o, look at this."

         She put a photograph on the table.  A young dude with long hair stared up at Wesley out of a past no longer felt but not forgotten.  He had on a tie-dye T-shirt, jeans, and sandals, and he stood in front of a VW Bug with a big smile on his face.

         "Who's the hippie?" Wesley asked, trying to sound aloof.

         "Well, it says here on the back that it's some guy named Wesley with his new car.  On his birthday, July 18, 1972.  Let's see, that would've made him, er, you, like, sixteen.  Right?"

         "Yeah, I can see you've been working on your math."

         "Oh Daddy."  She glared at him in mock indignation.

         "Where'd you find this?"

         "In a shoe box in the closet.  There's a bunch of other old ones in there, too.  Ones of Grandmother and Grandfather and Uncle Artie and you.  But actually, like, I want to show you just one more."

         She put another photograph on the table next to the first one--Wesley standing in front of her new Civic when she had turned sixteen a couple of months ago.

         "There.  For purposes of comparison."  He wondered where she was going with this. 

         "Now, please notice that if we control for age, the major difference seems to be in weight."

         "Where'd you learn this jargon, `control for'?"

         She pursed her lips.  "In biology."  Then wagged her finger at him.  "Now, don't change the subject."

         "Weight, huh.  I rode my bicycle last Sunday."  He angled his eyes up to her, fishing for sympathy.

         She didn't take the bait.  "Around the block a couple of times."

         "I have cereal and non-fat milk for breakfast."

         "And you have for lunch and dinner?"  Arms were folded, right eyebrow arched, eyes glistening with mirth.

         Wesley shrugged.  "Okay, okay, I'm a fat slob, and I need to exercise and watch my diet."

         "Well, not really fat."  She reached down and patted his no-longer-flat stomach.  "Just a little bit overweight.  See ya."

         "I know--`wouldn't wanna be ya.'  Go to bed, you reality fascist."

         He emptied his glass and took another look at the photographs.  Yes, Wesley Daniel Owen had changed all right.  Definitely older and heavier.  But an occasional zit still erupted on his face, and the hair hadn't yet been sullied by gray.  Nope, still all brown, although, maybe, just a little faded and a little thinner.  Eyes still blue, too, but not quite as blue as they had been back on July 18, 1972.

         Wesley wondered what the hell had happened to that bright-eyed, skinny hippie.  The kid with the big smile and his first car and his life stretched out like a magic carpet in front of him?  A carpet woven with unlimited possibilities for happiness.  Oh, he was still here, but the carpet had gotten frayed over the past twenty-four years.  Frayed, hell—it was downright threadbare.  What was to be, has been, and the promises have become limited by the vagaries of time.  How had the Bard put it?  "The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune."  And all that shit.

         It was time to check the personal ledger.  On the plus side, he got married, had a baby, got his Ph.D., got a job, bought a house, bought a new car, published six papers and two books, got early tenure, and . . . and that was all on the positive column.

         Now, the other side: he got divorced, the house and the car had both become bottomless money pits, he hadn't published anything in the past two years, and didn't give a damn that he hadn't.  He also had a couple of nasty fights with the department chair, and—

         "Night, Dad."

         "Huh?"

         "What's wrong, Daddy?"  She put her arm around her father's shoulder and looked into his eyes.

         He looked away.  "Wrong?"

         "You look so sad."  She turned his head back around and examined his face, concern etched on hers.

         "Oh, I've just been taking account of the old life.  You know, I miss that VW and the kid who owned it.  Both were simple and easy to fix.  Not like the car and man in the other photo."

         "Well, I didn't know the kid and car in that first photo, but, like, these recent ones both work pretty good for me.  They don't seem to need fixing."

         He smiled at her.  "Some kids stole a Lexus out of the faculty lot tonight."

         Her eyebrows shot up.  "You see it happen?"

         "Yeah, just as I was getting in the car.  I called 911 and they caught them down South Street.  Probably headed for the freeway."

         "Oh, Daddy, that was brave."  He decided there was no reason to tell her the whole story.

         "Come'er, you."  They leaned toward each other and engaged in the long established family ritual of alternating kisses on each of their cheeks.  Somehow she hadn't grown out of that either.

         "That was nice, sweetheart.  But what about the doggie slobber?"

         "Oh, it's worn off by now.  See ya in the morning."

         "Hey, did you make up with Marcie?"

         "Yeah, sort of.  I called and like told her what I thought about her blabbing about me and David.  She apologized and everything.  We're okay now."

         "That's good.  Sleep tight."

         But the best thing still left on the positive side of the ledger was Sunny.  A great kid.  All A's and B's, soccer team, clubs, friends, summer job at the library.  Hair the color of rust and eyes of brown sugar.  Teeth straightened by years of orthodontia.  A smile that could light up the night and a frown that could darken the day.  A maturing body and a hardening attitude.  A laugh like a spring morning.  If she missed her mom, she didn't show it much anymore.  Right then life was too fresh and exciting to mope around like her old man.

         Wesley loved her, but he couldn't let her know how much he needed her.  For ongoing reality checks.  At this point in his life, Sunny was the main foil against his delusions.  She was so genuine, so much her own person, so connected with life, that he couldn't play his games with her at rationalizing away his failures and fears, and expect to win.  Like he'd just tried with the weight thing.  And the time he'd come home from the faculty meeting bitching and moaning about the dressing-down he'd gotten from the department chair.  Her response?  "Are you sure you didn't ask for it, Daddy?  Maybe, like, you provoked him or something.  You know how sometimes your mouth is your worst enemy."  Wesley poured another glass.

         It had been so different with Adela.  Over the years they had become so emotionally dependent on one another that they ended up supporting each other's neuroses.  Originally, Wesley had been the "strong" one and she the "weak" one.  She depended on him, and he depended on her depending on him.

         But two years ago they had begun to switch places.  As Wesley became alienated from the university, his strength as a pillar for Adela to cling to also began to crumble.  Feeling betrayed, she retreated into herself for a year and then emerged as a new woman, strong and independent, no longer "needing" him.  It didn't take her much longer to realize she no longer wanted him. 

         At first, Wesley had been relieved to be freed from her dependency—about the only bright spot in that bleak year.  But the pain would not be denied, and it soon washed away his new-found sense of freedom—the pain of realization that her dependency had been as much his design as hers.

         For the next year they went only through the motions of a married couple—form without substance.  Such was the vacuum of their feelings that any lessons they might have learned from their mistakes were lost.  Only now, when Wesley looked back from the vantage point that only time can bring, did he understand that they had confused need with love.  The wrong kind of need.

         So Wesley was not at all surprised about Adela's reaction to the offer of a tenure-track position in the Department of Latino Studies at Souhtern Florida University in Miami.  She grabbed it with the desperation of a woman drowning in her marriage and her equally odious job of part-time lecturer.  The timing was exquisite; push and pull united, and she was gone in a flash, leaving Sunny and Wesley in her dust.  But he still couldn't understand why she had to divorce Sunny, too.  Well, maybe he understood, but . . .  She was