Hide Fox, and All After

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There are two enchanting hours in New York City — from five to seven in the morning. On the most polluted days the dawn’s pink can still be seen, and the air is passably fresh. The junkies are gone, the mass of people still asleep. The wind that is there, and gone by noon, is desolate: as shocking and as haunted as the sight of Broadway empty.

Raul left his apartment to walk the three blocks to the 86th Street Station. For two and a half years he had unconsciously made this journey to the Cabot School, but now the gray avenue in midwinter seemed as austere as Raul’s determination. They would know about his cutting today; but they would face the black prince, not a child.

In the subway station he sat on a bench, daring them to laugh at his awkward legs. He met each stare severely, noting their features. The workingmen and — women: billowing dresses over pointless breasts; barbed wire stockings; pitifully thin, drooping socks — New York Poor and New York Labor. And the students — image of himself that he would not allow.

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