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"Have you any idea what it's like to have people looking at you, thinking there he is, the child of a rapist? I'll tell you so von don't have to guess or do research. You have a feeling of nonidentity, almost as if you don't exist at all. When I was younger but old enough to understand. I often looked into the mirror, half expecting to see no reflection.

"Of course. my grandmother did the best s

he could. For most of my life. I lived believing my grandmother was my mother. You've heard that. I'm sure," he said, his eves steely cold, "We're a favorite coffeetime conversation topic. I bear the Montgomery name, but it's like a gift of charity. I have no blood relationship to it. I might as well think of myself as an adopted child who just happens to be living now with his real mother."

I couldn't respond for a few moments. How alike we are I thought. Most of my life, my adoptive mother had me believe I was the child of a rapist. too. Could I tell him without revealing it all?

"I had no intention of getting into those sorts of things. Linden."

"Well, what sorts of things are you getting into. then?"

"The Montgomerys were very wealthy once, weren't they?"

"So?"

"Well, your mother experienced a life of great wealth and now lives a different life. I simply thought she might be a very good resource. You. too. I suppose." I said. "You and your mother are people who have lived the changes and could make comparisons."

His eves calmed. I could almost see the waves receding inside them.

"I told you what I think of these wealthy people." he said, tossing a gesture toward the house. "They think of themselves as substantial, important, meaningful because they can buy yachts and estates and have grand parties and wear designer clothing. My mother has more substance in her pinkie finger than most of them have in their whole bodies, in all their bodies together!"

"That's why I'd like to meet her and talk with her," I said quickly.

He studied me a moment. "Who are you?" he asked. "I don't mean your name. I mean, where are you from? Who are your people?"

"I'm from South Carolina. I'm an only child. I've lost both my parents ."

Are you engaged or anything?"

"No," I said. "How about you?"

He threw his head back and laughed madly-- so madly and so long I 'vas a bit frightened.

"Me? You have to be kidding, of course. Why, I'm like a leper in this town. A girl here take me seriously? Please. I used to go places, hang out with some friends, but I've became too weird for them-- or too bitter," he added more honestly. "I am bitter."

"My nanny used to say that bitterness is like an animal feeding on itself, a buzzard that eats its own heart. Um corvo que coma seu proprio coracao."

"What?" he asked smiling.

"She was Portuguese. She was really the one who brought me up." I said. The more of the truth I revealed, the better I felt about my white lies and little deceptions.

"Yeah, well, for me, bitterness keeps me alive," he said.

"Sometimes, we are unhappy so much, we think we can't live without it," I said.

"Is that another of your nanny's sayings?"

"Yes, in a way."

He stared again and then nodded as some conclusion came to him. "Okay," he said. "'I'll make a deal with you."

"What?"

"I'll talk to you. I'll answer as many questions as I can for you. I'll even let you meet my mother."

"What do I have to do?" I asked, holding my breath.

"Pose."