In November Morgan received a letter from his wife's mother. Yellow foliage filled the tree, and though the day was dark, a weird light lay over everything, as if the sun, fallen from the sky, had broken into leaves.
He drove to the diner in the old part of town in the shadow of the Thruway overpass. He took a seat at the counter and read the letter.
I know I shouldn't interfere, Morgan's wife's mother wrote, but I can't stand idly by and see my daughter suffer. Surely two reasonably intelligent people can work things out.
Morgan's wife's mother was a professor of English. By reasonably intelligent she meant two people who showed as much intelligence as could reasonably be expected of them.
Morgan's wife's family were Lutheran of German ancestry.
The gardener who raked the leaves into a high pile in the street was Greek Orthodox of Yugoslav ancestry.
Lately, Jews of East European ancestry who had owned the dry cleaning establishment had sold it to Buddhists of Korean ancestry.
The counterman handed him a large laminated menu and smiled a gold-toothed smile. Hey compadre, he said.
Morgan looked at the menu: he could have the chili, or the chicken soup, he could have pigs' feet or Irish lamb stew or lasagna or souvlaki.
I am not reasonably intelligent, Morgan thought. I am unreasonably intelligent.
I suffer a vision of incessant migrations of mankind lapping the earth prehistorically, historically, and to the present moment.