What harm, really, can it do?

Daniel wants to do no harm, nor does he want any harm to come to him.In fact, he has moved back to Leyden, home ofhis bucolic, mediocre childhood, leaving a prosperous career back in NewYork City, largely because he had lived for months with the fear that either one or severalAfrican-Americans were going to beat him within an inch ofhis life, or perhaps go that extra inch and kill him.It was not an idle, racist fantasy;he had been told flat out that his time was near.He had unsuc-cessfully defended a black man accused ofdealing drugs, and on the day ofthe sentencing, a short, mild-looking black man in a blue suit, a white turtleneck, and a diamond earring whispered to Daniel,“Keep your eyes open.You know what I’m saying?”Within a week, Daniel’s own dread had wound itselfaround him so tightly that he couldn’t see a person of color—a cleaning woman, a bus driver, acrobats and break-dancers in Washington Square Park, a bunch ofhigh school kids horsing around on the subway platform—without thinking that this one, or that one, might be an emissary from his furious client.“I’m afraid ofblack people,”he fi-nally said to Kate.It was the most shaming thing he had ever told another person.He felt like an insect, a fool.Kate, for her part, was entirely sym-pathetic.And to think you defended that fucking idiot for free,she kept on say-ing.Did anything she said make him feel better? He can no longer remember.He spent another two months crossing the street to get away from suspicious-looking blacks, spending a fortune in cab fares, exhaust-ing himself with gasps and double takes, feeling weak and loathsome, and they caught up with him anyhow.

Daniel and Iris walk into the Koffee Kup together.Ofthe three breakfast spots in Leyden, this is the oldest, and the core clientele are na-tives ofLeyden.It’s a