Free At the Heart of the Universe by Samuel Shem

a blast of love from his toes to his head and he started to say, “What a little muffin,” but the “muffin” part got lost in the choking tears of joy, the love he had never felt before, and when he looked into her eyes they held his gaze, dark eyes so electric!—and he fell in love with the peacefulness of the three of them, the birth of this finally family he’d yearned for, sitting together in the concrete courtyard with old iron play gyms and bamboo seats that kept the toddlers imprisoned, and the bright flash of a rainbow of baby clothes hanging on a line, flapping in the wind of south China in the glorious fall, and all of it blurred like a rushed photo because he was weeping.
    Now he counts to ten to calm himself.
    â€œOkay, Kate-zer. With the beautiful nice beggars and the waiters? I’ll try.”
    â€œYou’ll do it, Daddy, I know you will. Love you too.” As she slips down the steep slope of sleep Katie remembers a girl she saw outside the Beijing Zoo. She had a hurted arm in a sling she looked real sad and hungry. That could have been me, if... if something else happened to me. Why was it me who was given up? Why me?
    Clio feels Katie relax, turn over, and go out like a light. She doesn’t feel sleepy. Her mind is going over and over what Katie has just said. Chinese but not Chinese. Chinese American ? It’s true. Watching her walk down the street here, you know she’s not Chinese—she doesn’t walk stiffly like they do, or gesture like they do, or cover her mouth when she laughs. What a relief, to have her see the real China. Katie’s back, in sleep, molds against her front—like she herself used to mold against Pep, warm, there .
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    With Katie breathing deeply, Clio senses the sexual in the air. Even though they’ve had a lot of time alone on the trip, nothing has happened—they’ve both been strangely reluctant. When they first met, their attraction was immediate and intense.
    Clio had been invited up from the city by her friend Carter for a charity event at Olana, the home of the great painter Frederick Church. Perched high on a hill just south of Columbia, it faced a glorious panorama overlooking the Hudson River with its glittering silver bracelet of the Rip Van Winkle Bridge, and the granite Catskills. It was Victorian Day and Pep was working as a volunteer guide. A tall, red-haired, boyish man dressed in formal Victorian leisurewear: dark suit, white shirt and cravat, purple cape. He was standing in front of a ten-foot-tall Persian window, all done in amber—her favorite stone since a trip to Morocco with her family—with a hand-cut black stencil latticework of arches within arches like the Alhambra. She liked him at once, for the gentleness in his face.
    She asked: “Is the window positioned there for the seasons?”
    â€œYes,” he said enthusiastically, as if happy to be asked a good question, “Church was often depressed—a lot of family tragedy—and he craved the light, for relief. The window is perfectly set to catch the most light, the whole year round. I admire that about him. He was a great artist, but marvelously practical.”
    â€œAnd the amber?”
    â€œHe loved amber, the way it shines against the dark. My favorite painting is all amber— The Entrance to Persepolis —would you like to see it?” He led her to it: a view through the dark scalloped cliffs to the ruins. It took her breath away—a foreboding that gave way to the soft light on limestone, the Greek temple facade.
    Pep went on, “I see it as his coming out of his depression over the death of his little son, finding a glimmer of light.”
    â€œWonderful. I’ve always wanted to go there.”
    â€œTo the light?”
    She wondered if he was joking, but no. “Yes. But first, Persepolis.”
    â€œWell then,” he said, gallantly crooking his arm for her to