One night years ago, when my husband and I lived the implausibly leisured lives of graduate students, we were sitting up very late watching Marilyn Monroe on television. It was one of her better movies. And we were debating if she were or were not so luscious, so desirable. Did she deserve her fame? We were discussing this issue and watching the blond star strut inside the neon pallor of the screen when we heard a curious and sudden sound outside. It was a loud burst—almost as if something inhuman had tried to vocalize the word, "PLOT!" This sound was followed at once by another, a tinkling swish, the characteristic noise of breaking glass. Marilyn, whose satin dress was stretched tightly across her breasts, was just opening her mouth to say something that we never heard ...for we rushed downstairs at once and opened the door.

Outside on the quiet, house-crowded street where streetlights shone, there was nothing to be seen except parked cars and the black shapes of gables and foliage. No cars passed. No pets strolled. There were no people. It was a warm, summery, California night. Even though it was very late, we were still fully clothed. Without having to return to the house to dress, and without any hesitation, we walked down the sidewalk to the corner. On the four-lane main thoroughfare, about 50 feet from where we stood, the pavement was littered with glittering fragments. Moving closer and crossing the street, we saw that the large window of a storefront had been blown out. The dangerous shark-fin shards of the glass still adhering to the window frame ringed the dark and silent interior.

"Hello anybody!" I called. We didn't move closer.