The Endless Adventures of Infoman

Chapter one

The house was mostly dark. There was no one in the kitchen - the lights were off in there. The dining room, all swept and tidily arranged, was also dark. In the large front room, only the couch and chairs congregated in the darkness. the light in the hall was also off, but upstairs, Mark was in his room, playing with his soldiers.

On the floor were regiments of confederate troops, plastic gray, poised to conquer the small blue rug in front of the dresser. The Union was in disarray. Blue men were fleeing towards the closet, scattering. On his knees, Mark sounded the advance. One by one, the South moved forward. Only General Grant had stood his ground, but he was weak, and all alone.

It took several minutes to move all the soldiers, and by the time they'd settled in the new terrain, the enemy was gone. They'd given up without a fight, knowing they were hopelessly out matched. The South was disappointed; geared up for a war and none to fight. But they were pleased enough, and proud of their performance. Even the one-armed privates celebrated. In Mark's voice they cheered, and he made them slap each other on their backs. Over by the closet, the Union was regrouping. They could retreat no further.

Mark's mom was in the other bedroom, rocking in a rocking chair, reading a murder mystery. The book was titled ÔBored to Death'. It was supposed to be based on a true story about a man who'd terrorized Nebraska with a portable power drill. He was never caught. She rocked beneath the tall pole lamp, surrounded by her shadows. She was only halfway done. Seventeen victims so far, and nobody even knows what he looks like! The police are baffled. The killer sprinkles sawdust around the deceased once the bloody deed is done. Patty was not aware that she was biting her fingernails. Later, she would scold herself for that. It was ten past nine at night, and the late august sun had already set.

She only vaguely heard her son's revelrie; it didn't bother her. WHat bothered her were the sounds coming from the basement, from the den below the living room, where her husband and his pals were watching baseball on TV. They talked throughout the game. They talked louder than each other in order to be heard. They had the TV turned up loud so they wouldn't drown it out. Nonetheless, they did. Patty wished she had a power drill; she'd go down there and bore a hole in that TV. Instead, she chewed her nails.

It was the bottom of the fourth. In the top of the inning the Jammers had scored three runs, on J.D. Wilson's towering home run. The boys had gone berserk, whistling and shouting and stomping their feet, yelling Ôattaboy!' and Ôit's outa there', Ôalright!', and Ôway to go, J.D., way to go'. Just then the killer was stalking his eighteenth victim. He was peering in at her through the window of her house. She was alone, reading Mademoiselle and munching on potato chips. The night was dark and quiet, but for the rumbling of encroaching thunder. Patty imagined the music, as if it was a movie; ominous synthesizer tones, or maybe a barnful of cows, mooing at midnight. The cheering from downstairs was not at all incongruous.

Mark was cheering in his room, making a sound like the roaring of a crowd. General Grant was captured by the rebels, and, while making a brave if incoherent speech, shot down and killed like Charlton Heston in ÔKhartoum'. General Lee (the Mahdi), was displeased. He scolded his troops, but it was too late. The damage was irreparable. There was no bringing him back to life, not tonight at least. And Mark felt an urge to make it permanent. He thought about decapitating the poor plastic thing. But he didn't. He'd find another use for it some other time. Not that the North would ever win; no sir, not as long as he had anything to say about it.

Jerry Groves was on the mound, a lanky south paw whose long whiskers were the source of many jokes. Still, he was a fine pitcher, usually striking out an average of eight batters per nine innings, while walking only three point two. Bob Ducek was not impressed.

- That guy's a bum, he said, he's over the hill. And what are they paying him? A million bucks a year just to stand there, playing catch! Tshit!

- Hey, said Harry Sellers, he's the best we got. Where would the Jammers be without him, huh? Remember that Rockets game a few weeks back?

- Yeah, I remember, Bob snorted. He gave up a grand slam in the seventh.

- And aside from that inning, he pitched a perfect game, Harry said.

- Aside from that! Puh! Aside from eating a little old apple, old Adam didn't do nothing wrong. See where that got him? He fucked it up for everyone!

- Yo! Grant Larson said, cut it out, you two, okay? So Groves is getting old. He's still better than most other guys in the league.

And Joe Baker watched the screen closely, concentrating, thinking, it's two and one, one out, nobody on.

- Strike two, the TV said.

- Come on Jer, said Joe, strike him out!

- Full count, said the tube.

- Tshit! He's gonna walk him, Ducek growled, god damn!

- Shh, said big Grant Larson as he grabbed another beer. He popped off the bottle top with one hand.

- How do you do that? Harry asked, incredulous. Grant didn't answer him, this time.

- Fouled it off, the TV said.

- Come on, said Joe, get him out.

- And here's the pitch. A swing and a miss, and Grove has struck him out.

- All right! Grant shouted out.

Two down, thought Joe, and Willie Bates is up. What's he hitting now? Three thirteen? He'll bat right handed this time. He's not as good right handed. As Bates approached the plate, the killer snuck in through the back door, silently. The woman didn't hear a sound. He came up behind her. She was sitting in a big old chair, but the killer was prepared. His twelve inch drill was securely fitted. He aimed for the middle of the chair.

Lee made sure there was a proper funeral for Grant, and he also sent out scouts to find the Union troops. But they were hiding in the closet, in old sneakers and a cardboard box. The scouts were afraid to go in there alone, so they came back. Mark made the General stroke his chin. He made the General think, I need a shave. He thought, we'll have to flush them out somehow. Some kind of ruse. And once we've gotten them in the open, then we'll pounce, and finish them off for good. He liked his idea. He told his men to set up camp. They'd stay right there that night.

Grove got Bates to pop out to the shortstop to retire the side, and as the beer commercial came on, Joe stood, and asked if anyone wanted some more beer. Grant Larson shook his head and said

- already got on it.

- Yeah, I'll take one, said Bob Ducek, while Harry Sellers shook his head.

- no thanks, Joe, not right now.

Joe Baker, who'd already had four beers so far, ambled up the steps to the kitchen. He fumbled with the door latch. and then with the light switch. When it came on, the fluorescent was too bright for a moment, and he had to shield his eyes. He stood still in front of the refrigerator, and listened.

He could hear the TV and the boys going at it downstairs - Ducek cracking some typically outrageous remark - just to get someone mad, or, as he preferred to put it, to make them think. But Grant knew to ignore him, while Harry (Bless his soul) always took it seriously and tried to rationally discuss Bob's propositions.

Joe knew there was no sense in this. Bob rarely believed what he said, or said what he believed. Still the same old troublemaker he had always been. Sometimes he was exasperating, when he denied everything anyone said just for the hell of it. Joe had often accused him of having no integrity, and Bob would always counter charge that Joe had no sense of humor. That's your trouble, Joe, he'd say, you have no feeling for the absurdity of life. He was right. Joe agreed with him because, to Joe, life was not absurd. Everything made sense if you only look for a reason. There is purpose in the world. There are no questions without answers.

He could also hear his son thumping around on the floor upstairs. No doubt he was playing one of his bewildering games, games that Joe could never understand.

- The boy is so contrary, he'd said to Patty, and she'd shrugged and said

- He's a growing boy. It's just a phase. Everyone goes through it.

But Joe could not remember going through it. History, to him, was sacred and inviolable. It happened the way it happened because that was the way it was supposed to happen. History was right, but lately Mark had the idea that it's precisely the wrong thing that always happens. The people who should have won always lost. WInners, by his current definition, are the wrong side, the bad buys. It bothered Joe.

- I don't know, Pat, he'd say. Seems to me there's something wrong with the boy.

- Don't worry, she'd insist. He'll grow out of it.

He couldn't hear his wife just now, and wasn't sure what she was doing. She'd said that she was going to read, so that was probably it. Reading doesn't make much noise, except when you turn the pages. And Patty's quieter at that than most. Sometimes she doesn't even talk to him at all. Silence as a weapon, silence as a tool, or better yet, silence as a gadget. Here in the kitchen, with the long fluorescent tube on, it was easy to think about gadgets. The Bakers possessed most of them.

He opened the refrigerator door, and pulled out a couple of bottles of beer. Miller Lite. Less filling (than what?). Tastes better (than what?). Thinking ahead, he pulled out a couple more. Grant would soon want another, and Harry would change his mind once he saw that he was the only one not drinking. Harry never liked to be left out. It made him feel stupid.

Clutching the bottles with his arms, Joe kicked the refrigerator shut, and dizzily made his way across the room. The kitchen was the color of daisy yellow, lined with walnut cabinets he invariable bumped into on these missions. Steady, he advised himself, steady as she goes. He laughed. So what if they hear me talking to myself? I don't care. With his elbow he flicked off the light, and with his foot he opened up the basement door. He went slowly down the stairs, making sure he didn't bump his head on the protrusion.

As he reached the bottom he could hear that the inning was in progress, so he hurried up a bit. Only Harry turned around when he came into the room. Tall Grant, with his feet propped up on the footstool, was staring at the screen. Bob was leaning forward from the couch, where Harry sat beside him. Joe plopped down into his seat, and started handing out the bottles. Bob took his without a word, while Harry said, Thanks, Joe, with that faithful puppy dog look in his eyes. Joe gave him a smile.

- What'd I miss? he asked.

- Not much, Grant said. Hastings fouled out on the first pitch. Now Gregory's up and it's two and oh.

- Three and oh now, said Bob. Great! They're gonna walk him.

They walked him. Ducek beamed.

- See? Didn't I tell you?

- You should have seen this commercial, Harry said. It was for some chain of barbershops, and there was this line of gorgeous broads in bikinis waiting to get in.

- Can you believe it? Ducek cracked. Getting their hair cutin bikinis? Yeah, right.

- Yeah, but to look at, Grant said, winking.

- I'll bet, he said, not really interested. On TV, beautiful women are a dime a dozen. Eventually they became boring. They are the new caste of Ôuntouchables' in america. That, of course, was something Ducek had said. And Joe thought that he was right. You see a hundred perfect tens every evening, then go up to bed with your wife.

Your wife, who has her hair in curlers and is wearing that blue nightgown you gave her for christmas seven years ago. She won't kiss you because you have beer on your breath, and she has cigarettes on hers, and if you touch her breast she slaps your hand and rolls away. She complains that she wants to cuddle, and all you do is touch, as if there could be cuddling without touching. But you don't argue. You say nothing and leave her alone and eventually she's lying o\with her head on your chest and you put your arms around her and tell her that you love her and she murmurs something back. And it all works out. You just need to have patience and a little understanding and it all works out. And really she's so much better than those one-dimensional females on the tube. She's not trying to sell you anything.

No, that wasn't even Patty. She wasn't like that at all. He must have read it somewhere, some human interest story in Newsbeat magazine, something about Òthe new marriage todayÓ. Patty never used curlers. She wasn't big on her hair. It doesn't matter what you look like, she'd said too many times. It's what's inside that counts. She'd probably read that somewhere. She was forever quoting something, and she never forgot anything she read or heard. They were alike in that way. They were alike in many ways. Joe believed, in so far as he had faith, that she and him were made for one another. There could be no one else. He was old-fashioned. No matter how the guys lusted after women other than their wives, Joe didn't really feel it, though he went along with it sometimes.

Jimmy Hyzek hit a line drive to left, a wicked shot, a broken bat affair. But the left fielder came in quickly and Gregory had to hold at second base.

- Damn, said Harry, unconvincingly. He wasn't able to swear with compunction.]

- He should have been running on the play.

- He probly missed the sign, said Bob, the stupid fart.

- Two on, no out, Grant intoned. No reason to complain.

- Oh no, it's Billy Squire, groaned Joe, he popped out his last time up. I don't know why he's even in the lineup. He can't hit for shit, and he's nothing in the field.

- Fuckin' Jammers, Ducek said. You know, as far back as I can remember we have never had a decent shortstop. Never.

- Bobby Toole, said Grant, but nobody seemed to hear him. The TV said,

- Squire's oh for one tonight, hitting two twenty four on the season, and only one nineteen against right handed pitchers.

- Tshit!, said Bob Ducek.

The night was rather cold, but the troops were in their tents, and none of them

complained. They were used to this and, after all, the army had made men of them. Only boys and women complain. Men stand up, and spit in destiny's face. They endure. They have balls. General Lee spent the night alone with his bourbon and cigars. It was very late at night when he finally dozed off, and he had a killer headache in the morning when his servant woke him up. But he didn't forget his plan. While his men ate breakfast, he surveyed the land, spying through binoculars over towards the closet door. There the cowardly Union cowered. He felt the confidence of victory. He had no respect for them; they were losers, and he was the one who was going to defeat them.

Nineteen down and twelve to go, but Patty was getting tired, and her eyes were wandering from the pages. The book was not well written. The author, a former police sergeant who'd been on the supposedly real case, had quit the force in sheer disgust as the murders remained unsolved. This was an expose of incompetence. She had read this kind of stuff before. It often amazed her how these authors felt they had a holy mission to declare the truth and let the facts be known, seemingly unaware of the fact that all of this was nothing new, the stores were full of identical books, and it hardly matters, anyway. She pitied them for their zeal, their ardent lust for justice. And yet, what paltry motives moved them!

Patty loved to read. She read all sorts of things, unlike her husband, who only read the news. She loved poetry and plays and novels too, as well as history and politics. Learning was her hobby. She was always thinking, and had a talent for criticism that she'd never well enough expressed. Something could be done with it. She could write reviews, or articles for magazines. Instead, she read and kept her thoughts to herself, or else shared them with Ruth, who was also very smart, though in a different way. Ruth could consider anything. She had lots of tolerance and a huge capacity for acceptance, while Patty was sharp and quick to cut. Often Ruth would mute her opinions, make her feel childish for being so vehement.

She could hardly say to Ruth, well, this is another book that needn't have been written. Ruth would only say, now Patty, they only do what they feel they must, there's nothing wrong with that. No, it's not wrong, not at all. That's not the point. It's just unnecessary, superfluous, irrelevant, that's all. Patty was a harsh judge. Ruth never judged at all. How else could she have tolerated her husband, Harry, all these years? Almost seven years, as long as Joe and me. Patty would never understand why those two had ever gotten married anyway. With her, it was a different story. She and Joe had much in common, lots of things, like doing crossword puzzles, and looking up words in the dictionary, and worrying about what's going on in the world today, and wanting the best for their son, and other things besides.

But Harry was a dog, a sheepish, loyal mutt, no master of himself. He couldn't make decisions, didn't have a point of view. Ruth was eternally neutral also, and she was happy. She had her freedom, control over her own life, no reason to complain. Patty had settled on this explanation long ago. Still, they had no children, were expecting none. Maybe Ruth really didn't want any, but the way she fussed over Mark ... Ruth. She wouldn't understand the way I feel about this book, this ÔBored to Death', Patty thought. I won't tell her about it. Maybe I won't even finish it. I really don't care, anyway.

Then she noticed her fingernails. It made her wonder. She had read somewhere that biting fingernails is a sign of internalizing anger. What am I angry at? The book? The boys in the basement? But it's nothing new for them to get together, watch TV. They do it all the time. Do I resent it? Really? It gives me time to myself. I wonder what Mark is doing. Rocking in her chair, she closed her eyes and listened. She heard her son giving orders.

- All right, troops, let's move out. The sound of something not quite like a bugle, and Mark's knees pounding on the floor as the regiment advanced. Patty smiled, knowing that the South was going to rise again.

- We'll surround them, said the General, and when they come out, we'll get Ôem.

- But what if they don't come out? asked a Captain. How long will we wait?

- As long as it takes, Lee said. It's too dangerous to go in there. It's too dark, and besides, we'd lose the element of surprise. Sooner or later they have to come out, and when they do .... and he laughed, and the Captain laughed along with him. The General brooded. He didn't like those Union guys, not one bit. They'd kept him down too long, prevented him from realizing his ambition - to be President. To be the Father of a New Country. Things had been doing wrong too long. A change was imperative. Someone must restore order, must set the course. And I'm the man to do it, Lee declared. I owe it to the people. They waited, huddled in expectation. All day they waited there, but the Union didn't show. Maybe they already knew what was in store for them.

Squire struck out looking.

- You bum, Ducek Shouted. You goddamn asshole son of a bitch!

-Shut up, thought Patty Baker.

- Can you believe it? Ducek said. He just stood there like a rock, while this perfect pitch goes whizzing by. Jesus!

- It's only one out, said Grant.

- Yeah, and now Groves is up! He'll probly hit into a double play. I can't believe that Squire. Why's he even playing?

- I dunno, said Harry, and he shrugged. He wished that he could swear like Bon. Just once, even.

Groves is not a good hitting pitcher, Joe reflected. He struck out last time up. The TV said,

- That one caught the outside corner for a strike. The count to Groves is oh and one.

- Come on, said Bob. Don't hit it on the ground. Pop up or something, anything, just don't hit it on the ground.

Harry had another swig and thought, I've had too much already. Ruth would be furious with me if she was home. I won't have another sip. Joe inched towards the edge of his seat as the umpire called strike two. Groves stepped out of the batter's box and looked to the third base coach for a sign. That's good, thought Grant, maybe I can use that.

- Hey, he said. I just had a thought. It's like a play on words. Say somebody wants to buy something, but he hesitates, he's not sure. All he needs is a sign, to go ahead and do it, and you can use the third base coach motif. It just might work.

- Are you always thinking about your job? asked Bib. I swear, it seems to live and breath advertising.

- Naw, it just occurred to me, said Grant.

- Ball one, said the TV. One and two to Groves.

- I don't get it, Joe said. How would you do it? What would you use for it?

- I dunno, said Grant. Maybe it's a dumb idea.

- You're right about that, said Bob.

- No wait, said Harry, it's not so bad. Looking for a sign, like a sign from God or something, and getting it from a third base coach.

- Terrific, said Bob. I suppose instead of guardian angels we all now have coaches down the line somewhere.

- Why not? said Grant. You could show some film of a batter at the plate, and have a voice over going, like he's worried about investments or something, and then you show the coach and he gives him a sign, and then you pan out to the scoreboard with the company's name or whatever.

- Even up, the TV said. Two and two's the count.

They always do that kind of thing, said Bob. The trouble is, we don't have a coach to tell us what to do. All we have is our conscience.

- So it's a symbol for that, Grant said.

- You and your symbols, Ducek replied.

- High and away. The count it full. He got out in front of him, but then he threw it away. Could walk the bases loaded.

- Way to go! shouted Bob. Walk the stupid sucker!

- I think it's a great idea, Harry said. Joe agreed. Grant smiled.

- Trouble with you, he said to Bob, you've got no imagination.

- Maybe, Bob agreed, but at least I can see what'd right in front of me.

- What's that supposed to mean?

- Nothing. Forget it.

- You don't see what's going on, Grant said. You only hope that what you want to happen will happen.

- I want him to walk this guy.

- A swing and a miss. Struck him out.

- Doesn't always happen the way you want, said Grant.

Chapter two

Patty had changed into her nightgown while watching herself in the mirror. She thought she did not look twenty nine, not yet. She still had that dimple when she smiled, and no wrinkles around her eyes. She wore her pale blond hair the same way she had for years, since Tony, her first lover, had told her how good it looked. She was still small and slender. Not a bad figure, she thought. She would not fall apart at thirty, as she had feared. Standing there, it almost seemed like seven years ago. Not much had changed. Of course, Mark had come along soon afterwards, but otherwise, she was the same old girl.

She daydreamed the lost years back again, and for a moment was convinced that she still worked at the paper, that she still called her mother every sunday, that she still did not know her husband's favorite foods, but the feeling faded, and all the accumulated changes intervened, and she knew exactly where she was. Her son, an alternately sullen and gregarious boy, was playing army in his room. Her husband, yes, the same old Joe, the same in every way, still himself but even more so, was downstairs with his pals, the same old pals he's hung around with all these years.

She climbed into bed, and dragged the pole lamp to her side. Once beneath the covers, she took the pillows and propped herself up. She stared for a moment at the picture of a kitten on the wall, then blinked, and picked up the book again. Will the real drill killer please stand up? She read:

Ò As usual, the officers who first arrived at the scene had left their fingerprints on every possible surface. Apparently, no one had ever bothered to teach them about the rules of investigation. They'd made a mess of all the evidence, even moving the body before outlining the position in which it had fallen. These are the kind of so-called lawmen I had to work with. No wonder the case was never solved.Ó

Patty sighed. The ill-concealed self-righteousness of the author was too much to bear, and it was only one of the glaring flaws in the book. The author - who had assumed a pseudonym, of course, not merely to protect his identity but as a license to exaggerate and distort the facts - had a curious sense of priorities. The victims were not his main concern - indeed, he barely mentioned them, as if they got in the way of the story. Nor did the motives of the killer seem to interest him. He was only interested in exposing what a lousy job his co-workers did, and yet somehow never implicating himself. Lots of criticism of others, almost none of himself. This irritated Patty. She thought, what is this guy hiding?

His almost religious zeal must be covering up something, must be some kind of compensation. Isn't this what the psychiatrists would say? What's his problem, anyway? She put the book down on her lap. Her earlier thoughts resurfaced. She began to analyze the author. Why is he so driven? Why does he appear on talk shows, but cloaked in shadows, as if someone who knew him wouldn't recognize his voice anyway? Why does he think that what he's done is so important? I mean, after all, he failed, didn't he? He never caught the killer, and even though he blames it all on others, he's as much to blame as them.

She couldn't understand him. What are his motives? Did a little voice sound off within his skull, demanding Ôdo this now !'?. Or is he in it for the money? For the notoriety? And yet he sounds sincere, and it says in the beginning that his conscience bothered him, and he felt he owed it to the people of this country to tell them how incompetent their law officials really are. As if that was something new. Incompetence? America? Is it only reserved for national office? But it is true that this man (known as Sergeant X) believed in what he was doing. He believed in law and order, and in the public's right to know. These principles were perhaps his deepest faith.

How odd what we believe in, Patty thought, and how it seems to us that we must act on our beliefs, how each of us follows our own commandments as if they came from God. Why, even the killer must have felt that he was just obeying orders. That little voice inside him said, go drill holes in lots of people, and so he did. UNless he had no awareness of what he was doing, which is unlikely. It's hard to not notice that you're doing such a thing. How do they account for such behavior?

The experts have all sorts of theories. He hates his mother or his father or his brothers or his sisters, so naturally he takes it out on strangers. Maybe he grew up in a rough neighborhood, or went to a bad school, or fell in with the wrong crowd, or took too many drugs which fried his mind and left him a crazed and vicious murderer. Maybe his idea of a good time is to go around drilling for blood. Somewhere along the line, his metaphors got mixed, or there was something he didn't understand and no one had the time or inclination to sit him down and tell him right from wrong. All he ever needed was a good example. As a child, he probly wasn't touched enough.

Who knows what makes a man do crazy things? Imagine the killer's aunt, who knew him as a boy. My, how you've changed, or, my Johnny would never do a thing like that. His friends would vouch for his character. HIs boss would say he was a model employee, who would have believed it? We gave him everything. And he would get up on the stand, plead insanity, and say, I was only doing what I believed I had to do, there is no other excuse. And this is precisely what the author is claiming for himself, and all of us, she thought, we all do this. We justify ourselves, and what silly fools we are, believing what we think, and thinking that we believe.

Is this the very measure of stupidity? she asked herself. Faiths we do not question. I have thought it so it must be so. When do we stop to doubt, and think, maybe I am wrong? Patty had been doing a lot of that lately. Her mistakes were not as serious, perhaps. She never killed anyone, or let a killer get away. Her incompetence only ruined her own life, no one else's. And where does it get her, all this doubting? Even if the police had been competent and thorough, this guy might still have eluded them. This author thinks he's doing us a service, well, we could have lived without it, thanks. How many other ex-cops will follow the trail he's blazed, how many other discontents will point their fingers at someone else, trying to vindicate themselves? And this book does nothing to bring the killer to justice. It's an admission of defeat. He should have moderated his belief, been less ardent in submission to his conscience. That would be the best thing. We all make mistakes, she thought. No one asks us to be perfect. Maybe if we realized how fallible we are, we'd be less likely to run off on our own crusades, pretending to a cause. Why be a hero, Patty thought, and she remembered reading somewhere that heroes are only born of tragedies. It would be better if our failures made us cowards. Patty thought of Joe again and wondered, not for the first time, about who he would have married if he hadn't married her. She couldn't picture it. History is indelible. It only goes away when you forget to look.

Her musings were suddenly interrupted by ferocious noises coming from her son's bedroom. For a moment she was startled, wondering Ôwhat the hell?' before realizing what was going on. History, no doubt, repeating itself again. She glanced at the clock on the nightstand and decided it was high time the war was over and Mark went to bed. She slid out of bed, and took a deep breath. It's no simple matter to enter the battlefield while Mark was going at it full tilt. He was liable to mistake her for Lincoln and gun her down.

He was half inside the closet, crouched down on his knees, yelling, Ôwatch out, General! There's one coming up behind you!'. Lee turned, just in time, and cut down the enemy with his big broad sword. The campaign wasn't turning out to be as easy as he had expected. In the first place, though they waited and waited, the Union troops never emerged from the closet. His own men were getting restless, and there was a danger that the delay could cause them to lose their momentum. They'd been red hot only the day before, but now they were cooling off, becoming once more the usual indolent slobs they'd always been.

Such unprofessionalism! No matter he hard he tried, the General had failed to adequately discipline his troops. They were just country boys with no sense of how real soldiers ought to behave. Lee blamed himself for their inadequacy. Such youngsters need a strong authority figure. Maybe he was too easy on them, maybe he himself was too womanish, too sensitive. That's it, he'd been to nice to them, too indulgent - well, no more mister nice guy, they'd see.

And those Union boys were real chickens, hiding there in shoes and crumpled clothing on the floor, quaking in their boots, too scared to even peek outside the door. Left to themselves, they'd never come out. Lee decided to make the big move. HIs own boys needed the experience. It would make men of them in a hurry. But this was no spur of the moment decision. It took the General all day to decide, after weighing all the other options. Certainly it was risky; some of his own men would surely die, but hell, this is war!

The captains were pleased. They were tired of hanging around. They were ambitious men, anxious to get ahead. One of them (the one who'd lost his left arm during the Crusades some weeks before) congratulated the General, and said he wouldn't regret it. It would be a venture of hitherto unimagined courage. Sometimes the battle doesn't come to you, so you have to go to it, he said. Lee thought, if this man survives, I'll make him a Major. And so the troops were rallied, and prepared to plunge into the unknown.

- Forward, march! Mark yelled, and he made that sort of bugle sound again, and he whispered Ôchum chum chum', the sound of marching feet. Not to be unrealistic, he made it so the troops had to pry open the closet door - no room for miracles here - which they did on the third heave-ho. As light streamed in, the wretched cowardly dogfaced boys in blue began to run away, to the back of the closet, but this did not save them. ÒCharge!Ó the one-armed captain yelled, and Mark whooped for the rest of the regiment. Da de da! Herray! Come on boys! There goes one! He went this way!

Guns were fired - choop choop choop, pekh aaah, clunk. A Union private was picked off from his perch on the lowest shelf by the baseball cards, and he fell to the floor, bouncing on his head, but as he died he threw his sword which landed in the one-armed captain's chest. Aargh, the Captain gurgled. A gray corporal rushed to his side, but it was hopeless. The man was lost. There was no way to save him, so the Corporal settled on revenge. He kicked the dead Union soldier. That was when someone screamed Ô Watch out General, there's one coming up behind you!Ó and Lee turned, just in time, and felled the enemy with one swift blow of his big broad sword.

- What the hell is going on in here? Mark's mother yelled, and suddenly the battle ceased. There was utter silence for a second, and then Mark backed out of the closet and, looking sheepishly at his mom, he said,

- I was just playing.

She frowned. To look that the boy, you wouldn't think that he was only eight years old. He looked more like nine, or even ten. His most striking feature was his deadly serious expression. He rarely smiled - only laughed when thinking of something nasty. He was bigger than the other boys his age, and was something of a bully, especially with older boys. He picked fights with them, and called them names, and he didn't always lose.

- Well cut it out, said Patty. Anyway, it's time for bed.

- Oh mom, he groaned. Do I hafta? Lemme stay up just a little while, please?

- You can finish it some other time, she said, thinking, maybe it's his father's fault. He'd not been strict enough. The boy never learned to respect his elders. Ah, but if he'd had a sterner father, then he'd probably be a crueler child. You can't win.

- Go to bed, she said, and she turned and left the room. Mark waited till she was back in bed before returning to the closet. ÔWe've got Ôem now', the General whispered, and his troops murmured assent. The yelling now stayed inside his head, and the slaughter proceeded in silence. Patty wasn't fooled. She just sighed, and tried to read the book again. At least it's quiet for a change, she thought.

Joe got up and stretched, then reached over and turned off the TV set. Bob was saying, for the eleventh time,

- All right, way to go, we really showed those assholes!

Grant was nodding in agreement while Harry, with his eyes half closed, looked like he was about to fall asleep. The den was full of empty brown bottles, lined up on the floor and perched on the arms of the couch. For the first time in several hours, the room was silent for a moment. The Bob leapt to his feet and said, Ôwell'. Grant struggled to stand up too. Soon the four of them were tramping up the stairs and talking all at once.

- I don't see what's so bad about it, GRant was saying.

- Just forget it, old boy, Bob counseled. Believe me. You'll be better off if you just forget all about it.

Thud! Grant forgot to duck, and his head smacked against the protrusion.

- God damn it, he said.

- You okay? Joe asked, and Grant mumbled, Ôsure'. Even if he wasn't, he would have said he was. Nothing gets to Grant. Mr. Imperturbable they used to call him. They liked to call each other names. Bob and Grant especially. They were rivals or a sort. Of the four, they were the better looking and the most successful and the smartest. They had been competitors in everything.

- Of course he's all right, Bob said, emerging into the kitchen first. Nothing could hurt that hard old head.

- Like nothing can make you shut up, Grant said, coming out after him.

Joe followed with Harry, as always, trailing behind him. Joe was thinking about how he instinctively ducks by now, having bumped his head too many times, while Harry, the shortest of the bunch, couldn't get his skull whacked there if he stood on tiptoes. He wondered why it was that Grant, who was so smart, never remembered to duck unless he was reminded. Grant was still thinking about his latest great idea, which Bob continued to mock.

- Give it up, Grant. YOu do this every time, but you've never used one of them yet. You always say you will, but then the next day you realize it was just stupid.

- No, Grant replied. I'm just saving them up. I have so many good ideas I can afford to save them up, but you have to use them right away because you never know if you'll ever get another one.

- I live by my wits, boy, Bob responded, now that they were all moving through the living room. I'm a pragmatist. Whatever's useful to me, I use it. I don't have to plan ahead. I can always get by.

- Squeak by, you mean, said Grant. You don't plan ahead because you don't know how. If you did, you would.

- It's just no fun, said Bob. I like living in the here and now.

- But someday, Harry began, but his voice trailed off since no one was listening, not even Joe, who was talking to the furniture about that call in the bottom of the eighth.

- I still don't see how anyone could say that he was safe. Geez. He was out by a mile.

- It doesn't matter, I guess, Joe answered himself. We won the game anyway.

- Trouble with you, said Grant, is you're jealous. You always were and you always will be.

- Jealous of you? Bob laughed. You've got to be kidding!

Upstairs, in bed, Patty was frowning. Those two, she thought, still acting like little boys. Is that why men get drunk, so they can act like little boys? And they've been doing it for so many years. Even before I met them, I'll bet they were getting drunk and calling each other names. They haven't changed at all in all these years/ The games, the beers, the stupid conversations, all of it exactly like it used to be back in the college dorm. Strange how those four have stuck together for nearly a decade now, when they're such very different people. How can you explain it? Grant and Bob I can see, and Harry and Joe, but the four of them? It doesn't make any sense.

- No, I'll drive, Bob was saying very loudly. You're too drunk.

- And you're not? Grant said.

- I'm a better drunk driver than you, said Bob.

- Hey, keep it down, said Harry. The kid is probly trying to sleep.

- Who, Marky? Bob laughed. He was always loud, not only when loaded.

- Hell, if I know that boy he's up there right now rewriting history again, slaughtering the innocent. I'll bet he's going to make it so Ulysses never makes it home. He laughed again, and Joe worriedly laughed a little with him. He knew that Bob was probly right.

Go home, Patty thought, just clear out and go home, and they were about to do just that. She heard the front door open and the men tumble out onto the porch. Bob and Grant had come in the latter's car, since Joan had to use the Ducek's, and were still fighting about who was going to drive. Since Harry only lived two blocks away, he had no such problem. They all said good night to one another, and Joe stood on the porch, watching until Harry had turned the corner, and until Grant had relented and given Bob the keys, and they'd started up, waving to Joe as they drove away.

Joe was very drunk. He'd had at least eight beers that evening, before losing count. His blood was racing and his head was pounding as he came back in the house and started up the stairs. Patty picked up her book again, determined not to have the same old stupid scene. The killer was stalking victim number twenty-three, in the dead of night, as Joe entered the bedroom.

- Hi dear, he said.

- Hello, she answered, gravely.

He walked past her into the bathroom, where he pissed for at least a minute. He was already taking off shirt when he came back in.

- I hope we weren't too loud down there tonight. You know how we get carried away sometimes.

Patty didn't answer him. She continued to read about number twenty-three, who went downstairs for a midnight snack, and promptly became one. Next morning they found sawdust all over the kitchen, which the polices, imbeciles that they were, swept up and threw away instead of saving it for evidence. Sergeant X was beside himself with rage, for this was the stupidest thing he'd ever seen, and these are the incredibly idiotic fools who we think are going to protect us? And you're one of them, Patty thought, you stupid twit!

- It;s too bad the girls couldn't come, Joe said, and keep you company, but Joan had to go bowling and Christine isn't feeling well and Ruth is still visiting her sister in Nebraska.

- Hmmm, Patty said, still reading, not looking at him, deciding not to look at him.

- It's too bad, Joe repeated.

- I'm fine, Patty said, staring at the print. I didn't feel like company tonight anyway ( especially not vociferous Joanie, Bob's perfect match, or the fawning, ever gullible Christine, she thought to herself ).

- Well, anyway, Joe said, taking off his pants and nearly falling down. He'd forgotten to remove his shoes first. He sat down on the edge of the bed to undo the laces. HIs mind was drowning in a puddle of booze. Patty was thinking, if there's one thing that makes me sick, it's the smell of beer on someone's breath. I'm not going to kiss him. Maybe he'll just pass out. But that was unlikely.

Joe was a man who could hold his liquor. It seemed he could never have too much, and it never made him sick. And, unlike most other people, being drunk didn't change his personality one bit. He only became even more himself. He'd bore you to death repeating verbatim some nonsense he'd heard on TV, or read in Newsbeat magazine. He'd try to initiate a discussion about his passion, current events. And once he'd begun, there'd be no stopping him. His friends learned how to ignore him, how to get him to change the subject. Alcohol did nothing to stimulate his sense of humor, if indeed he even had one. He only laughed at what other people thought was funny.

And so Patty knew not to ask him how the game was, or how the evening was, lest he begin to summarize the events. She didn't want to hear about it. Instead, she focused her concentration on the book, plowing through the author's endless self-justifications and deprecations of others. Joe let his shoes drop to the floor, and finished taking off his pants and socks. He rolled into bed, and lay there on his back, arms folded over his chest, and stared up at the ceiling.

- Know what Grant said? He asked.

- No, said his wife. I don't.

- He had this idea for a billboard to advertise an insurance company. And it was going to be about making sure you have enough relief in your bullpen. You know, in case you fall behind. What do you think about that?

- Grant's an asshole, she declared, startling her husband, who sat up.

- You don't mean that, he said.

- Yes I do, she said, still reading her book. He always was an asshole and he'll always be an asshole.

- Patty, Joe scolded. That's not nice.

- So what? She turned the page and read,

Ò There might never have been a victim number twenty-four had the police not bungled this one so badly.Ó Nonsense, she thought, why was twenty-three so special? Why was he so sure there was some crucial evidence in the sawdust this time?

- I thought you liked him, Joe said. And Christine.

- Look, I don't want to talk, okay? You're drunk and I don't want to talk. Just go to sleep, will you?

- Are you angry with me? Joe asked, and Patty thought, he can't tell, he really can't tell. He can't know anything unless he reads it in the paper or hears it on the news. Anyone else would know he's pissing me off.

- No, she said, I'm not, and he lay back in bed and closed his eyes. Incredible, she thought, he's really amazing. What a dope! She scanned the next page, and realized that she didn't feel like reading any more. The book was not wroth while. So she tossed it on the floor, and turned out the light. She lay down again with her back to her husband, but she wasn't really sleepy.

But Joe wasn't totally stupid. He knew that there was something wrong. She was annoyed, at least. But about what he had no idea. She'd been like this before, from time to time, and it never lasted. Maybe it was that time of the month. He could never remember when to expect it. Everything seemed fine to him. Just yesterday they'd had a nice quiet evening together, and she wasn't in a bad mood then. Certainly he had no reason to complain. He couldn't think of any reason she might have, but then again, he wasn't thinking very clearly. It'll pass, he thought, just like she says that Mark is only going through a phase. No doubt she's right. She always is. That sure was a good game, he thought, as he drifted off to sleep. Already he was imagining the morning. Sleep was a vacant time for him, a gap of nothingness. He never remembered any dreams. He thought of it like putting his life on hold for awhile, so he would be fresh and ready in the morning.

Chapter three

In on time at all, he was awake again. Patty, as usual, had woken before him, and was already in the kitchen, fixing breakfast. Joe yawned once, then quickly got out of bed. He didn't like it there, except when making love or sleeping. Otherwise it was a waste of time to be there, and he was not given to indulging in that kind of idleness. His mind was never active on its own, but needed stimuli, outer prompts to keep it going. Quiet stillness only made him restless, unless he was reading something, in which case he was at peace. He lived for information.

He whistled badly in the shower, a too familiar song from years gone by. He sometimes hummed, rarely sang. He had, as Patty often said, a wooden ear. But the song was not intended to be a musical performance - it only gave him something to do while standing there in the stream of hot water falling on his head. He washed quickly, shampooing rapidly as well. As soon as he was finished rinsing, he turned the water off, and stepped out to dry himself. He shaved while the towel was wrapped around his waist, and, noticing his face in the mirror, encouraged himself to wake up and be alert. Another day of interesting items lay before him. WHo could guess what would be happening in the world today?

From the closet he selected his customary suit - navy blue with thin lapels - a clean white shirt and an old brown tie. He'd gotten married in that tie. He put these on, and his black shoes as well, and headed downstairs for breakfast. He could hear his wife and son arguing already. Mark did not want anything to eat, but his mother knew what was good for him.

- You'll just be hungry later, she said.

- So I'll eat lunch, the little brat replied.

- I swear, she said, sometimes I don't know what to do with you.

Neither of them noticed when Joe came in the room.

- I'm your mother, Patty said, so you just do what I tell you.

- But I'm not hungry, Mark whined.

- Better listen to your mom, said Joe. You don't want to make her mad.

Mark glowered at him, a look that could have killed, and without another word he stomped out of the room and ran upstairs. Patty shook her head and said,

- Now look what you've done.

- What I've done? I didn't do anything. I'll go get him.

- Forget it, Patty said. If he wants to go hungry, then he'll go hungry. WHat do I care? He'll just regret it later.

- I'll go get him, Joe repeated.

- No! she snapped. Forget it!

Joe sighed, and sat down in his chair. The Times was folded neatly at his place, and as he picked it up, Patty brought a cup of coffee over and set it on the table.

- Thanks, dear, he said, as he began to scan the headlines.

HARPER VETOES NASA BILL. He read on, sipping his coffee.

ÒPresident Harper today vetoed the NASA appropriations bill, thus fulfilling one of his earliest campaign promises.Ó

- Did you see this? Joe asked Patty. They're getting rid of NASA.

- It's all for show, she said. He's just a demagogue.

- What do you mean? he asked.

- If he really wanted to save money so he can rebuild social services, then why doesn't he cut the military? NASA's tiny compared to them.

- But we need a strong defense, said Joe.

- Ha!, she said, and turned back to the stove where she was preparing to make his eggs over easy. They'd disagreed on this issue before. At a certain point she'd realized that she didn't want to talk about it anymore. Joe's opinions were as thick-headed as hers. They were equally stubborn. Joe continued to read.

Ò The bill, which was passed by both houses of Congress last week, contained nineteen billion dollars of appropriations for the National Air and Space Administration ( NASA ). Without these funds, NASA will be forced to terminate operations by the end of the coming fiscal year.Ó

- It's too bad, he said. Think of all the things we could learn from outer space.

- Well, we still haven't learned a whole lot from our own planet right here.

- Yep, it's a shame, he said. He looked back at the paper.

Ò The President said that the money thus saved would go directly into the newly created Destitution InstitutionÓ

- They take from the smart and give to the stupid, he said. Patty chose to ignore his remark this time. She served his eggs and toast instead. He didn't notice as she placed them before him, nor did she remind him. She went to make her own. Joe was still buried in the story about NASA.

Ò Representative Herbert J. Collins ( D - Neb. ) declared that preparations for an override veto would begin immediately. ÔIf we don't do it then our enemies will', he said. Other House meme\bers agreed, calling Harper's veto Ô a lamentable tragedy' and Ô a disgrace'. It is not yet apparent, however, that there will be enough votes to override the veto, an action that requires a two-thirds majority in both houses of Congress.Ó

- It's a mistake, Joe declared. I think.

- Of course it is, said Patty.

Joe noticed his eggs, and put away the paper for a moment. Two bites later, and with his toast in his hand, he picked it up again and scanned the rest of the front page. Two airplanes nearly collided at the airport near Fort Worth, Texas. Fortunately, no one was injured in the almost accident. The mayor of Dumont, New Jersey, was arrested on felony charges of statutory rape. The girl, aged fifteen, turned him in. A progress report on the rebuilding of Detroit. The usual stuff. And Joe read the entire front page, not following the stories when they continued on another page. He always read The Times this way, beginning with page one, column one, and then to column two - ecvery page from left to right, and every page in order. His eggs were getting cold. Patty was sitting down across the table from him. He didn't notice her.

She sat there silently, considering an attempt at conversation. She could tell him something. She could ask a question. But the scene was too familiar. At times like these she felt weary, more than anything else. The story of my life, she thought, is the same chapter repeated over and over again. Not that repetition in itself is bad - how else do we learn? Once they'd looked the words up in the dictionary. Repetition is merely doing something again, whereas redundancy means doing it again but needlessly. Stupidity is bad enough the first time, unbearable the second. And yet I go through with it again and again and again. Two more words from the dictionary came to mind. ÔObvious', from the Latin root meaning Ôright in front of you', and Ôproblem', from the Greek root meaning Ôright in front of you'.

Every thought I think, she thought, I've thought before, and will think again. What's the use in thinking? I'll ask him what's in the news, even though I looked through the paper already this morning, and he'll tell me all about it. I'll whine about Mark being out of control, and he'll lower the paper for a moment, and sigh, and say ÔI just don't know what to do with the boy', and I'll scream inside my head, Ôyou don't do anything with him! You never spend any time with him!. Silently I'll scream it, for if I say it out loud, he'll say, Ôthat's not true', and talk about the game he took him to that day. The same old useless arguments, quality time and quantity time, terms we only use because we heard them somewhere, in the paper, on TV. Nothing that isn't recycled.

Joe read about the massacre in Utah, gangland style, cops still looking for the killers they will never find. Nobody knows what they look like. No clues at this time. No witnesses. There never will be any. He read about the crime rate - rising, falling, rising sharply, steadily declining, like a barometer, as if crime and the weather go together - maybe it's controlled by the moon. How many murders per capita, rapes per capita, burglaries per capita. Four hundred thirty one. Two hundred ninety eight. Seven hundred sixty five. He read some ridiculous quote from the mayor, having nothing to do with the issue.

Patty sipped her coffee, eyeing the clock, noting ten minutes until the obligatory scene with her son who doesn't want to go to school, who, at this very moment, is planning to undo the American Revolution. George Washington, Father of His Country, freezing to death in Valley Forge. Jefferson beating his slaves while Cornwallis routs the rebels, forcing them to surrender. The blue soldiers will be the Americans. The British will be the gray. But first General Lee must become President, while Lincoln dies of exposure and hunger instead of a bullet to the skull.

- Looks like Tobago is going to default, said Joe. They owe seventy billion to the World Bank.

- Won't happen, Patty murmured.

- Hmm? Joe peered at her from behind The Times, waiting to hear more.

- The banks will bail them out, she said, like they did for Peru, like they did for Somalia, like they're doing all over. And every time they do it, they own that much more of the world.

- Damn banks, Joe said instinctively.

- Can't beat Ôem, Patty said. They've got all the marbles.

- They've got us by the balls, Joe said. Harper can't do anything about it. He just keeps giving in to them.

- He has to, Patty said. He has no choice.

Joe grumbled and turned back to the news. He didn't like what she was saying. Seems like everyone's just giving up, he thought. Don Summons had said the same thing the other day. Bad enough what happened last year. Even worse what's happening now. Give the banks an inch, he thought. It's not good. Ever since the so-called balanced budget. HIs reflections lasted only a moment, and then he moved on to page four. There was a large picture of a man holding up a baby he'd just rescued from a burning building. When Patty had seen it, she'd thought, ah, a man of action, but where are the mental heroes nowadays? Why not a photo of a little girl having a great idea? But Joe was moved by the shot, to the point of declaring,

- That's a wonderful thing. It's good to know that things like that still happen in the world today.

Patty didn't say anything. She thought, yes, we need more mental heroes, some more great ideas. Could it be that there are no more revalations, that we've already heard them all? The philosophers say nothing new. WHy should they? It's all been said. Many are called. Few are chosen. She finished the last drop of coffee. Time for Mark.

On the floor, over by the desk, sat the late Ulysses S. Grant. The boy had decided to turn him into John Paul Jones, so he could be blown out of the water without ever having begun to fight. Jones would be an easy prey. Mark had no respect for him. He was a loser and a coward and most of all a weakling. Mark had no compassion for wimps. They existed soley to be exterminated, game for the strong. Leaders are trained by using such puppets. The hopes of the many are nothing compared to the needs of the powerful few. This was the law. Lee himself would march bravely into New York, now as Wellington (Wellington?) or some British general. What triumph he will feel!

- Mark! his mother called. He delayed. With Lee in the palm of his hands he stood up straight, the bellowed,

- What, mom!

Patty, at the bottom of the stairs, sighed again. The games! The wretched, redundant games. Grit your teeth and resist those angry impulses!

- It's time for school, she announced, as if he didn't know. There was the usual twenty second pause. She knew this like she'd seen it in the future, and it was only more of the same. Finally Mark said,

- Aw, I don't wanna go to school.

She sucked her teeth, licked them for a moment. I hate this, she thought.

- Mark, I'm giving you ten seconds. One. Two. Three, she called out, thinking all the while, he's got me timed just as precisely as I've got him timed. He'll appear when I get to ten, and only then. Ruth says it shows that he still loves me. Great. Loved by an idiot child! Still, it's better than if he didn't show at all.

At ten Mark did indeed appear, without the General, ready to go. He came down the stairs slowly, and Patty had to stand there, waiting. If she even turned her face away for a moment during the process, he'd turn around and go back up. Another way he held her prisoner. She resented it. But if Mark was too demanding of her attention, Joe was too indifferent. She'd rather have love shown like this than with that tacit, never-stated understanding that might be real or maybe not. How could you tell? A man who'd said he loved her so many times that it deserved to be true merely from the repetition. Yet was it? Was it ever? Is it now?

Mark was hustled out the door quickly, and their crossing of the kitchen did nothing to make Joe Baker stir. He remained as solid and as still as ever. He said goodbye to his son as he read of the latest cult in Pittsburgh. How strange are the times, Don Summons had said only yesterday, when people turn to leaders named Acid Reign and R. C. Cola? In The Times, there was a shot of Mr. Reign, sprinkling some of his Ôdeadly water' on a newborn child. This is definitely bad, Joe thought. He said as much to Patty as she returned to the sink to wash the dishes.

- What is? she asked.

- This Acid Reign stuff, he said.

- Oh, she thought, momentarily misunderstanding him. Oh that. Isn't it incredible how stupid people can be/ I mean they worship that asshole!

- What's this world coming to? Joe moaned.

- I'd like to know where it's coming from, she replied.

The dishes clattered in the drainer as she stacked them there. The silverware chimed. Music of the wares, she thought. Joe stood up, still holding the paper, and folded it in that practiced way he had. He cleared his throat.

- Almost time for me to go, he said.

- You didn't finish your breakfast, Patty said.

- I guess I'm not hungry, he said.

What do I care, she thought. At least that's something unpredictable. Which one day of the work week will Joseph P. Baker not finish his breakfast and say he isn't hungry. The odds are five to one. But it's always one day every week. AN empirically proven fact. So I'll throw it in the disposal, she thought. Joe had put on his jacket, and was in the hallway, straightening it in front of the mirror. He was thinking about the weather. It's going to be hot today. Highs in the eighties. Twenty percent chance of precipitation by nightfall. He returned to the kitchen, pecked his wife on the cheek and said goodbye.

- Have a good day, she said, not meaning anything anymore after all these good and bad datys. She heard the door close as she pulled the plug in the sink. Noisy water rushing into pipes. Joe, of course, had taken the paper.

- I ought to get two of them delivered, she said aloud. Instead she'd been getting up at six to have some coffee and The Times to herself for awhile. She'd never said anything about it. She knew what his reaction would be - pure astonishment. What? Think of you? Consider your needs? SInce when have I done that! She put the words into his imagined mind, half knowing that she was being unfair. He was not a bad man. He was, however, an idiot.

Joe got into his branc new car. He'd waited a long time for this car, with its classy dashboard and electric blue exterior, custom vinyl seats and all the rest. It had cost him plenty - he'd be paying for it for years to come, just like the house. At least the old wagon was finally paid off. He pressed a button he'd had installed in the car (Bob had put it in for him, Bob the doer, Bob the man) and the garage door opened. He backed the car into the street. Canyon Mill Drive was pretty quiet this time of day. The commuters came out in staggered shifts, one every five or ten minutes. MOst drove downtown, although it wasn't very far away and the bus service was adequate.

Joe wasn't paying close attention to the road. He didn't have to. He'd done this every day for seven years. He'd go down a few blocks, make a left onto the boulevard and zip on in at sixty. The trip took fifteen minutes, and the scenery was dull. Over the years, old buildings had been torn down, new buildings had gone up, the road had been repaired, in strips, many times. Gradually the sky was shrinking. After a few miles on the boulevard he made a right onto Quincy and headed for the parking lot.

The drive was routine, but it was never twice the same. This was because as soon as he pulled out of his garage he turned on the radio, where it was always stationed to K.N.O.W., all news all the time all day all night forever and ever amen. He listened to the sooting and informative voice of his favorite human being, Don Summons. Don Summons was a great man. A truly great man. He knew everything that was happening in the world, everything that should be known. Joe was in awe of him, and envied him a lot. Joe had always wanted to be a news reporter. He'd often daydreamed of going to the Columbia School of Fraudcasting (Patty's term), but he was ashamed of the sound of his voice, which sounded awful on tape.

He pictured himself on television, saying, this is Joe Baker reporting, all the news that's really news. He heard himself on the radio, in Don SUmmons magic voice, the constant clicking of the phony ticker tape or whatever that sound is going on in the background all the time. In other news today. Topping the headlines. Recapping the top stories. Recanting the news, decanting that rare scoop and winning those coveted awards, whatever they're called. Patty used to encourage him in the early days, but as his indolence stretched on over the years she stopped. If you want to be a bookkeeper all your life, she said, go ahead, see if I care. You do whatever you want. What he wanted to do was dream, but he never let his fantasies interfere with his absorption of the news. That was his top priority.

- Put a little lemon in your life, the girls on the radio sang. Something with a phony lemon taste or smell. Could be anything. The song went on and on. It's bubbly and refreshing, delightful, cool and breezy, free and easy, play and win, do it again. It was like a riddle you were supposed to guess at. Joe was paying close attention. He tended to let his mind drift during commercials and sometimes he'd forget to snap back into receptive mode when the news came on again. There was a flea collar commercial, and Joe couldn't help but think about the Sellers' dog, Basic, who'd thrown a fit last week and was still at the vets. Harry and Ruth were worried sick. They loved that thing. And then the ever-respect-inducing voice of Don Summons returned to the air, along with that clackety-clack sound in the background.

- Good morning, he declared, it's eight oh three a.m., I'm Don Summons, and your listenting to K.N.O.W., fourteen twenty on your a.m. dial. Topping the headlines, President Harper has vetoed a bill which would have provided funding for the space program for the coming year. In effect this action, if not overridden by Congress, would abolish NASA entirely. Insta-polls indicate that more than seventy percent of the population disapprove of the President. In other news, Republican congressman Jack Balk of Utah has reintroduced legislation calling for the nationalization of all major commercial U.S. banks. A similar action taken last year failed by a close margin. President Harper has announced his opposition to the measure, claiming that even if attempted, such action would be declared illegal and unconstitutional. In a related story, the Office of Management and Budget released a report concluding that more than forty percent of the federal budget is earmarked for the banks as interest on the premium from the so-called balanced budget loan. More in a moment.

As the FedCorTron commercial came on ( Save the World With Orange Juice Today! ), Joe decided that Don Summons was right. The commercial U.S. banks were traitors and should be expropriated. And Harper should be impeached. It was a bad mistake he made negotiating that loan, because ever since then we've been sold out to the banks hook, line and sinker. It's true that Harper's action probably saved the economy, but where are we headed now? Sixty four percent say Ôin the wrong direction', according to yesterday's Insta-poll. Don Summons was not like all those other news reporters. He wasn't afraid to take a stand. He said what he meant and meant what he said, and you have to respect a guy like that.

Those other guys pretended to be impartial - objective, they called it. It seemed like they had no opinions of their own, or aren't willing to taken any chances. Not Don Summons. He'd come close to getting fired any number of times, but he never backed down, never apologized. HIs listeners loved him and they let the station know it. Often, during the day, he'd tale calls from ordinary people and answer their questions. He'd speak his mind and let them speak theirs. Many times Joe had wanted to call so badly that he almost did. Several times he'd even dialed the number but hung up before it rang. Someday he'd really do it, but only when he really had something important to say. He wanted to impress Don Summons. The man was back, saying,

- Two men were killed and a woman seriously injured this morning when an apartment building in the eighteen hundred block of Peray Street went up in flames. Officals have not ruled out the possibility of arson. Good news for lawyers! The divorce rate took a leap last year, and now almost three in every four marriages end in divorce. Wholesale prices remained steady last month, but the inflation rate continued to rise, due largely to the lax monetary policy of the Federal Reserve. The overall consumer price index was up by zero point eight in July, a nine point six annual rate.

At least that's a far cry from two years ago, Joe thought, when the Republicans gave us twenty percent inflation and eighteen percent unemployment. It was a dilemna. The Republicans were no good because they didn't know what they were doing, even though they wanted to do the right things. The Democrats, on the other hand, wanted to do the wrong things, but they knew how to do them. Neither party had the answers. It's enough to make a man give up voting. Joe had been a Democrat in his youth, and later on a Republican. Now he didn't know what he was.

He pulled off the boulevard and headed on to Quincy Street, still listening to the news. He listened as he waited in line at the parking lot. He listened as he parked his car. He sat there listening until the next commercial came on. Then he reluctantly turned off the radio, and climbed out of his brand new car. It was eight eighteen. Twelve minutes left to get to work, but that was no problem. His office was only a block away, the firm of Magnusson and Lurkin, where he was one bookkeeper of many. It was a professional bookkeeping service. Joe was good at his job. He'd been there for many years. Still, he'd better hurry up, just in case. They hated it when you were late. Still pondering the morning's news, he headed down the block.

Chapter four

The Jerome Building, at 413 Quincy Street, was concrete and glass and little else. Rows of windows were layered between rows of pale gray slabs of rock. Every angle was a right one. Every floor was like every other. It was fourteen stories tall, built only ten years earlier in honor of Jefferson Jerome, a former mayor of Jamestown who'd died in a drunken driving accident. His recklessness had also killed a woman and her child. It was a tragedy all around. In life he'd had his name plastered on every pole in town every few years. In death it rested on a concrete slab in front of the building, a slab that people sat on, tripped over, or ignored.

Joe didn't notice it anymore. It was simply there, like the scenery along the boulevard, like the protrusion jutting out above his basement steps. He approached the building from the same direction every day, perhaps even stepping on the exact same spots on the sidewalk. This never occurred to him. He had no sense of the banal repetitions that plagued the conscience of his wife. For Joe, there was no question; everything was as it should be. He strode through the still unfinished lobby - or maybe it was designed to look unifished, without furniture or plants or murals, nothing but the board that listed all the agencies and their room numbers. There was almost always at least one elevator ready and waiting in the lobby. He stepped in one and pushed the button numbered eight. The doors did not close right away, as if they were expecting someone else to dash inside. No one did.

Really there were only thirteen floors in the Jerome Building, but the thirteenth floor was numbered fourteen, not fooling anyone. Joe paid no attention to this fact. As far as he knew, all of the buildings downtown were just like this one. As he rose, the muzak played some vaguely familiar tune. He didn't hear it. Joe Baker wasn't thinking, he was doing. Those two modes precluded each other in him. The elevator reached his floor, and he walked calmly out. He turned left, went down two doors, and walked into the offices of Magnusson and Lurkin, Inc.. He was two minutes early.

It was a long, large office, that spread along the width of the building, and even turned the corner. The walls were uniformly beige, matching the carpet and the partitions that formed the cubicles. Joe worked in one of those. The stucco ceiling was also beige, its uniformity broken only by the silver speakers and air conditioning vents. There were no plants in the office, no paintings on the walls. The windows were tinted gray, and could not be opened. It was quiet at this time of day. The only noises were the clattering of a computer keyboard or two, the occasional ringing of a telephone, and the incessant subliminal sounds of muzak.

Some of the twenty seven people in the firm decorated the sides of their personal cubicles with amusing calendars, photos of their loved ones, covers from fashion or football magazines. Joe had a photo of Patty and Mark on the wall to his left as he sat. It was an old snapshot, taken when Mark was only two. Patty hadn't changed. Mark was unrecognizable. Aside from this, his walls were blank, no pithy sayings, no comic strips, none of the ritual corporate culture symbols, nothing to distract him from his labors.

On the standard issue desk was his ever faithful calculator, an IBM PC running Windows, a huge ledger book, a telephone, an in tray and an out tray. In the drawers were folders for receipts and other memoranda, the tools of his trade. He sat down and opened the top drawer, removing a manila envelope, and placed it carefully on the desk. It was the weekly packet from the So So Bakery Company, Inc., full of the evidence of their transactions. One of his newer accounts, the people at So So had appalling financial habits - no organization whatsoever. They merely took every scrap of paper that had accumulated during the week, and stuffed them into the envelope and delivered it, every tuesday, to his office.

Mo Lurkin, Joe's immediate boss, dumped it on Joe's desk one day and said,

- here's a new account. It's all yours.

He slapped Joe on the back and left him to it without another word. But Joe was not given to complaining. The others might complain that they always got the most impossible accounts, that they were always getting dumped on, but Joe didn't care how easy or hard the job was - it was still the job, and that's what he was there to do. Nonetheless, one of these days he'd have to go over to the bakery and straighten them out. No, he'd have to tell them, your personal lunch receipts do not belong in deductables. Yes, the pension you pay your founder's widow is part of the payroll and must be included. No, your dentist appointment card is not of relevance, not every scrap of paper in the building needs to be sent along just in case. He'd tried to tell them these things on the phone, but they were newly from Korea, where the name of their shop apparently meant something else, and they pretended not to understand a word of it.

- Your job, they'd tell him. You no bother us with this.

He poured the contents onto his desk and started straightening out the pile. It was a formidable task. In the middle of it, Betty from the cubicle next door peered over their little wall, and said,

- Hey, Joe. Got any aspirin?

- Sorry, I don't, he said.

She vanished. Betty was incompetent, but that was none of his business. She was slow and lazy and ate to excess. She made a lot of dumn mistakes. She was forever getting yelled at, and she got drunk every night. Still, she was always cheerful and seemed to be a happy person. She had a teddy bear calendar on her wall, and some cartoons about an overweight cat. If he'd thought about it, Joe would have realized that he knew almost nothing about her. But she'd only been there for a year.

His intercom buzzed. He pushed the appropriate button, and said,

- Joe Baker.

- Joe, the voice said. I need to see you when you have a minute.

- I'll be right there, he told his boss.

He left the piles of paper on the desk, got up and walked across the now noisier office. Bill shrugged as he passed. Joe murmured greetings. Suzie crossed his path carrying an empty coffee pot. The big clock on the wall ticked its silent seconds slowly. Mo's desk was at the far end of the suite. Joe approached and waited respectfully to be acknowledged. Mo was a long time in looking up. When he did, it was not with a smile on his face. No one had ever accused him of being a friendly man. He hadn't gotten to where he was by being nice. Nice only counts at parties, he was fond of saying, and when you wanna get laid. There's no room for nice in business. He stared at Joe with that look intended to wither his opponents. He didn't like Joe because he'd never been able to intimidate him, and couldn't figure out why.

- Joe, he said like a question.

He paused. Joe's impassive gaze could be unsettling at times.

- Yes, Mo? Joe replied.

- What's this I hear about you and Bill Boulder?

- I don't know, Joe said.

He didn't know. Mo would have to spell it out for him.

- What did you tell him about the Lassie Project?

- I'm not sure what you mean, said Joe.

- DOn't play around with me, Mo warned. Do you think I don't know what's going on in my own office? Now, Bill asked you about the Lassie Project, and you gave him some advice, didn't you?

- It was only a technical question, Joe said. A matter of procedure.

Mo pounded his fist on the desk, but Joe didn't even flinch.

- Haven't I told you before?, Mo growled. How many times do I have to tell you? On this ship it's every man for himself. I won't stand for anything like this! How am I supposed to weed out the bad apples if they keep getting help from the others?

- We're all on the same team, Joe said, thinking it was the thing to say.

- No we're not, Mo said. This office is one big league, and every individual in this office is one team. This office is a war, and every employee is an army. And don;t you forget it. You're good, Joe, but you have to play by the rules, my rules. Now get back to work and don't you ever do that again!

He dismissed him by looking away. Joe turned and headed back to his desk. Mo's little talk had not disturbed him. It wasn't the first time he'd heard it, and it wouldn't be the last. Joe thought about the analogies, and decided that maybe there was something to them. It was something to think about, in any case. Every person a team. Every other the enemy. But Joe wasn't out to win anything, except his paycheck.

He stopped off along the way to get a cup of coffee, dutifully dropping a quarter in the styrofoam collection cup. The coffee was fresh, but Joe did not enjoy the taste. He just brank the stuff, the same amount every day. He carried it back to his cublcle, and let it cool as he returned to the task at hand. The people at So So really had no notion of what a bookkeeper does. In this case, he had to make sense out of nonsense, juggling numbers until they fit. It was hard to tell if the bakery was solvent or not. They only randomly kept track of the most essential things. Joe, during one of his rare flights of fancy, imagined there was a girl there whose job it was to go around the office every tuesday stuffing whatever she could find into the manila envelope. The idea did not amuse him. He merely guessed that was in fact how it was done. Otherwise, how could one explain the coupons for ten cents off shampoo, the empty ballpoint pens, the broken paper clips? They apparently confused bookkeeping with trash collection.

But Joe was not annoyed; he merely threw away the junk and concentrated on whatever receipts and invoices managed to find their way to him. With a bakery it was relatively straightforward. They purchased ingredients from only a few suppliers, and their hardware needs were simple. Repair bills were infrequent. They sold their goods to quite a range of customers, many of whom they regularly forgot to bill. Joe did that for them. Their inventory was fluid, and bound to be approximately the same every day. It wasn't difficult to calculate the profit margin, assuming he had all the necessary information. Unfortunately, he could not make that assumption.

In the background, there were voices now, some chatter and some gossip, Betty's banter and some more machines. Joe heard all of it without hearing any. His fingers were dancing on the calculator. Soon he had a report put together. He'd send it back to So So, presumably for them to look at. It was unlikely they even opened it. They'd left the matter in the hands of professionals. It was taken care of. They were lucky their account was given to Joe. Anyone else would have made a fuss. Anyone else, they might be out of work. Joe proceeded to the next order of business, a lumber yard outside of town. This would not take long. He could do it with his eyes closed.

Everything was familiar. Sitting there, working on the lumber yard books, it could have been any day of the past seven years. This was a fact that didn't disturb him, but rather comforted him on those rare occasions it actually occurred to him. Joe valued stability above all else. He relished consistency. Perhaps life was full of surprises for other people, but he didn't envy them. How can a man be at peace in a world that's always changing around him? How can he know who he is when he's forever changing? Let the others change, let the others live their uneven, unpredictable lives, that's fine. But Joe desired only to stand in the same spot to see it all happening.

He was thoroughly calm as he prepared the lumber yard report. Everything was in order and as it should be. He pulled the keyboard toward him, and pecked out a letter assuring the president of that company that his hears were unfounded, that he had nothing to worry about. Still, the note would be in vain, for the president of Timber Enterprises always worried and always would. He had a bookkeeper of his own, a harried one, and yet he always sent the facts to Joe for confirmation. Perhaps his father had been a failure. Perhaps he couldn't live with his own success. In his notes, he always seemed consumed by doubt. Joe had to reassure him every week, that he was in fact an extremely wealthy man. Joe was equally sincere each time.

Bill Boulder was suddenly standing there inside his cubicle. He was the inverse of his name, a small, unsettled, peevish man with horn rimmed glasses and a voice that seemed like a bad imitation of someone whose voice you'd never heard. He'd been having a bad time of it lately. His wife had left him, taking the kids, and had not even left a forwarding address. Though this had happened eighteen months before, he had not recovered even a little, and talked about it whenever he saw an opening in any conversation. Joe had sat through several such monologs, to the point where he practically had it memorized. Bill just needed someone to talk to, not someone who would listen or reply. Joe went along with it whenever he'd had time to finish The Times in the morning.

- Hi Joe, Bill said, squinting, as always, behind his glasses. How's it going?

- Fine, Joe replied, still typing out the letter. How are you?

- Eh, Bill shrugged, his all-purpose gesture. Same as ever, I guess.

- Uh huh, said Joe, hunting out the letters s-i-n-c-e-r-e-l-y, and thinking that it looked wrong.

- How do you spell sincerely? he asked. Bill shrugged.

- I dunno, he said. Joe nodded and bent over to pull open the bttom drawer of his desk. He reached in and picked out an American Heritage Dictionary. He looked it up. He'd been right. S-i-n-c-e-r-e-l-y, from sincere ( sin ser') 1. Free from pretense or falseness. 2. Real or genuine. Syn 1. Candid, earnest, frank, honest. Candidly yours, Joe Baker. Earnestly yours, Joe Baker. Frankly yours, Joe Baker. Honestly yours, Joe Baker. Better stick to sincerely, he decided. Bill was still standing there.

- What do you say to lunch? Bill asked.

In his younger, sarcastic days, Joe might have replied

- Hello?, but he no longer thought that way. He understood Bill's indirect invitation for what it was.

- Sorry, he said. I can't today. I'm busy.

Bill frowned, and then he shrugged.

- Some other time, he said.

- Some other time, Joe replied, and Bill walked away. There was still some time to go before he went to lunch. He had three more accounts to finish up by noon, and so, signing and sending the letter, he turned to the next order of business, a liquor store down on fifth street. More other people's business. Joe didn't envy them. Being in business is a pain in the ass, no matter how you look at it. Small business, big business, it's all a mess. Money coming in, money going out. Joe was a professional. All he had to do was add the stuff up and see how it all came out. It didn't affect him personally. He'd watched more than one account go down the drain. He'd given advice - sometimes heeded, sometimes not. It seemed to make no difference either way. Fate and bad management are an unerring combination.

And there were always more accounts coming in. You couldn't afford to dwell on the past, nor get too overly involved. The important thing was to keep track of the present, to stay on top of the situation as it presented itself. If you want to understand the past, you have to understand the present. If you want to know the future, buy a crystal ball. Theories wouldn't do you any good. Joe was only interested in facts. When working he thought only of his work, and so he was able to do it well and do it quicker than most others. Betty, for instance, would rather do almost anything other than the task at hand. Bill's remorse was always uppermost in his mind. Ed thought mostly of his paychecks and his debts. Nancy dreamed of what she could be doing with her life. Mo was only interested in manifesting power, in being power, in thinking that he was indeed the embodiment of power. He even typed hard, pounding away so all would hear and supposedly tremble. J.P. Magnusson, the overlord, spent all his time attracting new accounts. He was the personable one, the one who inspired trust and confidence. In other words, the shuckster. But Joe wasn't building any castles in the air. He was not projecting an image. His focus was on endurance. Beside that, all else paled.

Time went fast for him at work. It was always noon to soon. But no matter what he was doing, when Betty rose and stretched for the seventeenth time ( a certain indicator of the time ), Joe put away his work, picked up The Times, anbd went to lunch. He let himself be swept towards the elevator by the crowd, and didn't mind the jostling to get on board, nor the tight squeeze once inside. It would only last a few moments. No reason to complain. He walked with others to the door, turned left with half of them, and headed down the street. He turned again on Fourteenth Street, and walked a block to his daily repast, the Burger Heaven, another client.

He was patient in the line, while others shifted their positions, crossed or uncrossed their arms. The people behind him bumped him forward until he was face to face with the cashier, this time perhaps the oldest living one, who took his order. Burger Supreme, no mustard, and a Jumbo Fries and Coke. He paid and stepped aside. Moments later his lunch appeared on a tray. He picked it up and sought a table to himself. A small one in the downstairs room was vacant, so he took it. He spread out his lunch the usual way - opened the burger box, took out the burger, placed it on the near left hand corner, dumped the fries down the middle of the tray and moved the Coke to the right. He placed a napkin on his lap, opened up the paper, and read.

CULT LEADER INDICTED

Pittsburgh, Pa. (UPI)

Acid Reign, leader of the locally based Church of the New Acceptance, was formalyy indicted today on charges of sedition and incitement to riot. The action stems from an incident that occurred last month, when Mr. Reign allegedly called for the assassination of Pittsburgh mayor, Ken Handsworth. In a speech conducted during services, Mr. Reign allegedly told his congregation that Mr. Handsworth quote deserves to be roasted slowly over an open fire end quote for his refusal to grant historical landmark status to the Church building. Mr. Reign has since declared that his statement was intended to be quote symbolic end quote and that quote any idiot can see that end quote. Apparently neither the mayor nor the district attorney concurred with that perspective.

- Tsk, tsk, tsk, said Joe, shaking his head, and picking up his burger. What does he think this is, he asked himself, remembering Don Summons words, the middle ages?

As for the charge of sedition, Mr. Reign ( formerly known as Henry Forrester ), allegedly called upon the citizens of Pittsburgh to storm City Hall and take over the government. Mr. Reign has steadfastly denied the charges, calling them quote patently false as well as categorically untrue end quote. There are, however, a number of witnesses prepared to testify against him.

Joe took a big bite out of his Burger Supreme, and turned the page as he chewed. He read an article about the Voyager Nineteen spacecraft, which was closing in on Uranus. It was ironic that at such a time thePresident should abolish NASA. Below that there was an article on the privately financed Elixir craft, about to embark on the first manned landing on Titan. It was scandulous that the banks should be the ones to be covered in the glory. They'd be planting dollar bills in the dust instead of the good old stars and stripes. Joe furiously turned away from that article, and read the FedCorTron ad on the opposite page. All junior miss back to school outfits wenty to thirty percent off. Everyone was advertising early this year, since the teachers' strike last spring had forced the schools to open up in august. Mark had not been happy about that at all.

There was a small article in the corner of the page about a hippo that had broken out of the San Diego Zoo and gone charging though the streets of the city. Fortunately, no one had been injured, and the beast returned to its place. Joe turned the page and had a few fries. There was an article about the new Peace Foundation which Harper was proposing to Congress. Joe read the artcile grudgingly, thinking, as Don Summons had suggested, that it should be called The Institute for Surrender Studies. Harper was calling for a new era. He always was. Even so, Harper's popularity was at an all-time low. The Insta-poll on page five had him at less than ten percent approval. There was no doubt that his policies had helped to quell inflation, and the unemployment rate was down, yet eighty six percent of the people who'd voted for him said they wished they hadn't, and never would again. WHo would they vote for? Billy Morgan. Now there was a man who stood up for what he believed in.

Joe scoured the statistics of the poll, memorizing the numbers. The trend was clear. Harper was falling, and Morgan, who many considered to be a rabid maniac, was steadily rising. Joe did not like Morgan, but the election was still two years away, and anything could happen. There's no use trying to second guess the future, he thought. He only wanted to know what was happening in the present. It was important to keep current with events. He took another bite out of his burger, and sucked on his Coke through a straw.

A tornado had wiped out seven folks down in Arkansas. Damage was estimated at more than twenty million dollars. Flash floods submerged some two thousand acres of farmland in Missouri. A boy was killed when playing with power lines in upstate New York. Joe read on and on, until he finished the front section. Then he turned to the editorial page. He liked to read the letters to the editor. He'd almost written some himself. Once he'd come across a letter in there from Ruth Sellers, about how people should be forced to pick up after their dogs. It ought to be a law, she said/ Two years later, it was, and Joe liked to think that her letter had something to do with it. Ruth liked to think so too.

That day there was a letter about drunk drivers, another about official corruption, another complaining about the paper's music critic, and one really good one, about how all the banks have to do is call in one of their loans to the feds and the whole government will be forced to do their bidding. What is being done about this threat to our national security? the writer demanded to know. Nothing, thought Joe glumly, not a god damned thing. It made him mad. Don Summons had said that the banks were going to own us down to our great great grandchildren. If the Republicans were still in power, this never would have happened. The editorial was about the schools, about how harmful the strike had been to our kids, and how the teachers should be ashamed of themselves. That's right, Joe thought, they were wrong to go on strike. If they do it again, I hope they all get fired.

He read the columnists and the editorial cartoons (which he didn't really understand) and then he finsihed up his lunch. He wiped his hands clean, then got up and carried his tray to the trash and emptied it. Then he walked out of the restaurant. It was ten minutes to one, plenty of time. He thought about the articles he'd just read until he got back to the building. Entering it, the news was banished from his mind, and he was ready for the afternoon. He let the returning crowd carry him into the elevator, and out again on the eighth floor. He entered the office and walked over to his desk. Bill saw him, and shrugged. Betty was on the telephone, chattering away as Joe sat down and pulled out his work. At one o'clock precisely he picked up where he'd left off. He gave his total concentration to the work. He didn't hear the voices or machines, nor even the omnipresent, hauntingly familiar muzak in the background.

Chapter five

Betty was out of her chair and heading through the door. Joe knew by this that it was five minutes to five. It had been a productive day; most days were for him. There had been no further directives from Mo. In fact, he'd been left alone all afternoon. He'd become so absorbed in his work that he really hadn't seen or heard anything that had happened in the office. He was immune to it all, by special dispensation. He hadn't noticed when Nancy had pointed at him and said something that set all the ladies giggling. He hadn't noticed his boss peering over his shoulder, nor Ed frowning at him as he passed by. Joe had nothing to worry about, as long as he just did his job. The rest was immaterial.

Joe never had paid much attention to what other people thought of him - that was entirely their business as far as he was concerned. He sought only the approval of his closest friends, and people who were not close friends were just as good as strangers. Since college, Joe had been steadfastly rxcising the nonessential from his life. His whole education and subsequent training had taught him to disregard the things that do not matter. He desired no irrelevance in his world. He put everything neatly away in his desk, covered up the calculator and the computer and pushed them into their respective corners. HIs desk looked exactly as it had when he'd come in that morning.

Everyone poured out into the street at once, or so it seemed. The sidewalk was full of homebound commuters. Joe didn't notice them too much as he strolled back to his car. The lot was jammed with people pulling out, and there could easily have been any number of accidents. Joe was not an aggressive driver. It didn't make any difference if he pulled out in front of someone or let them pull out first. He'd get home just the same. He could never understand those impatient, restless fools who treated driving like a war. Don't they see how they consume themselves with needless passion? They'll end up with ulcers or something worse. He was in no hurry. He listened to the radio as the line of cars inched forward to the gate.

- It's twelve minutes past five o'clock, and you're on K.N.O.W., fourteen twenty on your a.m. dial. I'm John Strug, bringing you all the latest traffic, news and weather. Right now let's go to Tom Bard in our trafficopter for the latest on the commute. Tom? How does it look from up there?

- Hi John, crackled the skyward reporter, well, it's a typical evening rush hour. Traffic is thick and slow all over the major arteries. There's a stall blocking the right lane on the forty four at Caspar. An earlier injury accident on Polster near the Grange Gate has been cleared off to the side, VHP are present on the scene and traffic is backed up in both directions. Better news on the seven seventeen where an overturned truck has been cleared away and things are moving slowly but surely to the south.

It wouldn't have mattered to Joe if the boulevard was ten feet under water and they were sucking it out with garden hoses, he still would have taken the same route home and waited patiently. He had waited for hours some nights, but he didn't mind. Other drivers threw fits, screamed obscenities until they worked themselves into a frenzy, while Joe would sit there calmly, absorbing all the news, over and over again. Tonight the traffic moved steadily and there were no major tie-ups. Joe drove past the familiar landscape and the sights he no longer saw. In the rearview mirror, the downtown loomed, it's evenly spaced skycrapers with their lights just coming on too early as always, but Joe didn't pay it any attention.

The newscaster was telling how the bankers were upset with Harper's NASA veto, calling it an error in judgment, and hoping the Congress would vote to override. They should be happy having outer space to themselves. What would Don Summons have to say about this? In other news, four children and three adults were killed when a schoolbus went out of control and smashed into a sound barrier on the ninety six. Several others were seriously injured. More in a moment, after a few words from our sponsors. Joe took the exit heading home. As he pulled into the driveway moments later, he pressed the button, and with satisfaction watched the garage door open. He drove in and made the door close behind him.

As he entered the house from the side foor, he was carrying nothing but The Times, which he placed on the coffee table in the living room. Patty was in the kitchen, and he could hear Mark upstairs, playing in his room.

- Hi, honey, he said.

She didn't turn to greet him, but mumbled hello as she leaned over the stove to stir something in a pot. She sniffed a couple of times, then picked up the pepper shaker and shook some more into the stew. When she turned around, she saw her husband reaching into the refrigerator. He pulled out a bottle of beer, and looked around for the opener. Patty picked it up and handed it to him.

- Any mail today? he asked.

- The water bill, she said. And Newsbeat.

- Oh, good, he said. He opened the beer. He walked past her to toss the cap into the garbage pail. Patty yawned.

- How was your day? she asked, already knowing what he'd say.

- Fine, he said. Where did you put the magazine?

- It's in the living room, she said, thinking, he knows exactly where it is, where I always leave it for him. We don't have to talk at all anymore. Everything is always the same.

- I left The Times on the coffee table, he said as he left the kitchen with his beer.

Great, she thought, how kind of you. She watched him go, irritated once again by his predictability. And I'm no better, she told herself. I did the same things today I always do. Every day has been the same ever since I quit my job to be a mother, and even though Mark no longer needs me during the say, still I stay at home. Why am I doing this to myself? She knew that there was no one else to blame, and yet she blamed them both, her husband and her son, for tying up her life, for making it a package of routine. She stirred the stew more vigorously now, and some spilled over on thr stove top. What do I care, she thought. There's plenty of time to clean up later.

He found the Newsbeat by his chair and picked it up. Setting his beer on the lightstand, he sat down and studied the cover of the magazine. There was a familiar photo of Detroit in flames, and the headline MIRACLE RECOVERY. He took a gulp from the bottle and opened to the first page. Inside the front cover was an ad for true scotch whiskey. The next page proclaimed the wonders of the Yellow Pages. Joe read the copy. The Yellow Pages are used almost one hundred million times a day, an incredible fact if you stop to think about it. Joe didn't stop to think about it. He let his fingers do the walking, and turned the page.

Facing the table of contents was an ad for a chromosome manufacturer, and about the exceptional care they take to protect the public's safety. There was a picture of a man and his two sons. He said Ò I grew up in this town. Now I'm working to keep it sake for my children, and their children tooÓ and so on. It was hard not to believe in the ad. The man was so sincere, his kids indelibly cute. There was an address to write to for more information. Joe read the table of contents. The main story was of course about the rebuilding of Detroit, one of the cities destroyed in the riots of a few years before. Those riots, caused by the permanent recession, were the main reasons that Harper got elected. Once in office he fulfilled his promise to pour huge sums of money into public works projects in the major inner cities. Needless to say, the sums had been borrowed from the you know who.

Joe noticed that there was a story about the recent elections in Burma, where the two leading candidates had managed to assassinate each other on the same day, an historical first. There was also an article about the near default of Trinidad, and how the you know how had forgiven the debt in lieu of certain mineral rights concessions. Joe looked at the weekly category listings: national, international, concepts, technology, business, law, media, medicine, art, books, lifestyle, movies, letters, columnists et cetera. At first glance it didn't seem like there was much of interest in the magazine that week, but it didn't really matter. He would read it all, from cover to cover, interesting or not. A man has to keep up with what's happening in the world. What could be more important than that?

Newsbeat was only one of his sources of information, of course. There was also The Times every day, and the American Review. He listened to K.N.O.W. news radio every morning and every evening, and every night he watched the local and national news on TV. He also discussed current events, whenever possible, with his wife, his friends, and sometimes with his co-workers. It was very important to have a lot of sources, so you could get the whole picture. Too many people rely on only one or two sources for all their information, and so their perspective is distorted and their judgments are uneven. Joe liked to think his was a balanced approach to the news. He was not a man given to extremes.

He drank again from the bottle, and turned the page. There was a two page advertisement for a car. It was being touted for its low price and incredible performance, which together Òimbues the concept of value with new meaningÓ. It was the latest word in the state of the art of automotive technology. There couldn't be too much said about it. Joe was glad he'd bought one himself. He felt that for too long he'd neglected the importance of keeping up with all the latest developments, and certainly his new car was a far cry from the wagon, which belonged to Patty now. He turned the page again and beheld a Ôsuave', Ôdebonair', albeit cross-eyed gentleman lighting a cigarette while glancing surreptitiously at a naked female knee protruding from the corner of the page. The surgeon general was still quite convinced that cigarette smoking was detrimental, even downright dangerous to your health. Joe agreed with the surgeon general on this issue. Patty came into the room, saying,

- Dinner's almost ready.

Joe looked up, put down the magazine and said,

- I'll be right there.

Patty had already gone to the stairs and was calling Mark.

- Damn! Mark said, but not too loudly. Louder he said,

- In a minute!

He then returned to what he was doing. Napoleon at Waterloo faced the British, who were dressed in blue, and were led by a man named Wellington, (Wellington ?)

well something like that. Mark had it all worked out and he hated to be interrupted. He left them all in the middle of the floor and hurled himself down the steps. He joined his parents in the dining room, and took his seat.

- DId you have a good day at school? his father asked.

- I hate school, said Mark.

- SO did I, when I was your age, Joe said. But you have to go, so you might as well try and make the best of it.

Mark frowned at him, and Patty set a bowl of steaming noodles on the hot pad on the table. She returned to the kitchen to fetch the stew. Joe made another stab at conversation with the boy.

- I'll bet it's good to be with your old friends again.

- They're a bunch of assholes, Mark said.

- Mark! Joe was astonished. Where did you learn to talk like that?

- At school, Mark said.

- Oh, said Joe. Well, it's not nice to say things like that.

- Who says I have to be nice? Mark asked, and Joe had no answer for him. Patty came back in and began serving dinner. As she handed Joe his plate, he smiled at her and said,

- Thanks, dear.

She looked away and served her son. He took his plate without a word. She served herself and sat down at her place across from her husband, who was waiting for her before he began to eat. He had another sip from his bottle, and waited until Patty had taken a bite. Then he picked up his fork. The stew was delicious, and he told her so.

- Thanks, Patty said.

The boy was wolfing his down, although he knew that even if he finished first he'd still have to sit there and wait until his parents were done too. Dinner in the Baker house was a mostly quiet affair. There was nothing much to talk about. Sometimes Joe would bring up something he had heard on the radio on the way home, and occasionally Patty would deign to discuss it with him. Usually she just listened while Mark ignored him completely.

- Ruth should be coming home soon, said Joe.

Patty nodded, her mouth full, and said, once she had swallowed,

- Thursday.

Joe nodded, and jabbed at some noodles with his fork.

- Christine called today, Patty said.

- Oh? What's up?

- Nothing much. She and Grant are going to have a barbecue this sunday, and they want us to come over.

- That'll be fun, Joe said. You did say we'd be there, didn't you?

- Of course, Patty said. Everyone will be there, and Mark can play with Ricky.

Mark looked up, an expression of contempt on his face.

- Do I have to go? he whined.

- Yes, said Patty, firmly, in that tone of voice which Mark knew meant there was no escaping. He kept his other thoughts to himself.

The rest of dinner passed without a word. Patty cleared the dishes and retired to the kitchen to clean up. Joe retreated to the living room, after fetching another beer from the refrigerator. It was almost time for the news. He'd have time to get back to Newsbeat later. Mark ran back upstairs as soon as he was excused from the table. The soldiers were in place, right where he'd left them. He grinned as he imagine what was to come. This game was more satisfying than any other kind of fun, and he was determined to relish every moment of it. He forgot about his parents, and immersed himself in the times that never were.

Napoleon had already conquered half the world, and he wasn't finished yet. No man had ever been surer of himself or of his cause. No one had the strength to defeat him. He had crushed the Russians as easily as the Germans, and now the English were bound to be a cinch. He knew that if he won this battle here today that there would never even be a Rothschild. Napoleon, the gray colored general, was speaking to his troops.

- Men, he said, the time has come. The time is now! (Mark's history was a little on the confused side - he didn't really know the order of events, and didn't care. The important thing was the outcome, not the sequence). We have met the likes of these before. Have no fear. These British troops are scum. They are yellow-bellied cowards, like all who dress in blue. Now, onward to the fray!

With a great cheer ( whoooorrr ) the troops began their advance. For their part, the British also came forward, and Mark took turns advancing the armies, man by man. They came together in the middle of the room, and the slaughter began. They fought with swords, with pistols, with cannons and with fists. Mark provided all the appropriate sound effects: buh, ah, choop, swish, schwit, pam, bow, pik, pu-cham, aah! Now and then a cannonball (kaboom) would fall, tumbling soldiers all over the carpet. At first the fighting was fairly even, as many grays as blues bit the dust, but slowly the gray grew dominant.

Napoleon himself was in the thick of it, slashing left and right, the blue men falling in agony around him. He had a secret strength - not greed or avarice or arrogance or ambition. HIs strength lay in the pure fury of his rage. Napoleon was filled with hate, laced with contempt. And every man he faced reminded him of the source of that great anger. He cut down all the mirror images of his enemy, and when at last he met with Wellington, his anger knew no bounds. Wellington quaked to see him, and with good reason. Napoleon was the bigger man (or so Mark had it), a deadly man to fight. Their struggle lasted long and it was furious, but in the end the blue man writed upon the rug, and Napoleon spat on his defeated rival. Mark laughed and laughed, and then he smiled.

Patty washed and dried the dishes, and then joined her husband in the living room in the middle of the local news. Friendly people were telling of disasters, smiling, saying Òwe'll be right back after thisÓ. Joe told her what she'd missed; some stories about the upcoming municipal election, a piece about the drought, the controversy over the highway project bill. She listened to him patiently, sitting in her chair beside him, nodding. She leaned her arm on the arm rest and was surprised to find Joe touching her hand, then holding it in his. She looked at him, and saw him smiling fondly at her. She returned a smile, and he looked away as the news came back on the screen.

The new pope had made a speech reversing some policies of his predecessors, infallible though they may have been in their time, specifically in regard to birth control. Now they were all for it. The cynical reporter alluded to the fact that most catholics used some form of birth control in any case, so it appeared that the church was waking up abd accepting reality for a change. Patty and Joe, not catholics, no longer used birth control. They had decided on one child, and after Mark, Joe had had an operation. It made things more convenient. Joe thought more men should do the same. It's only fair. After that story, the bubbly weatherwoman went on about the heat, reeling off statistics. Ninety three, ninety one, eighty eight and ninety five, with lows sixty four, sixty seven, sixty two and sixty six, barometric pressure twenty nine point seven and humidity sixty three percent. The lows tonight should be, the highs tomorrow should be, the record highs and lows for this date and for that date which were set back in nineteen forty one, nineteen fifty eight, and nineteen sixty two. They were told to expect clear skies, more of the same, another scorcher in the works.

Patty shifted in her seat, and there was another commerical break, this time for lemon smelling dishwashing detergent. She could not understand this obsession with the smell of lemons, and as she hated the commercial, she got up and went into the kitchen. She didn't want to see the sports in any case, so she pottered around, putting things away, before finally ( I waited this long, didn't I?) fixed herself a drink. She was feeling better than before. I guess I was just hungry, she thought. That always makes me grumpy, and every time I'm mad at him he has to go and smile like that, I swear he does it every time. She hated to be upset when no one else was. It was so embarrassing to sit thgouth dinner wanting to scream and throw things when there was nothing wrong at all. She was ashamed, and thought how all the cliches were true about women and their emotions.

She wasn't doing much with herself these days. No doubt she'd gotten rather lazy. It was amazing, she thought, that I'm not fat and ugly, considering I deserve to be. She still wrote articles, a column once a week for the Gazette ( did anyone ever read that rag? ) about whatever occurred to her. It was in what she called the opinionated section of the paper. For years she'd been considering going back to work full time, and she knew that Joe would not precent her from doing so. On the contrary, he had always been supportive. What was it that was holding her back? She couldn't be sure. All she knew was that she wanted everything to change, to be like it was before. Back when Mark was born, it was Patty who'd resisted marriage, who held out for a year. She'd sent the kid to daycare, but at length began to feel guilty.

She quit her job at the paper, asked Joe to marry her ( and he was quite obliging - after all, they lived together, had a son, a future), she came home, and took care of the kid. For three years she played mommy all day long, and it helped that Joan and Bob had Ricky, and she and Joan were very close. And when the boy went off to school, still she stayed at gome, filling the days with small chores as she'd learned to do. That was three years ago, and here she was, still staying home. It was not Joe's fault. How could she blame him? Yet she did. He assumed she wanted to, and so he supported her. He was helping her to hold herself back. He was her accomplice in indolence.

She needed to be prodded. Perhaps she had to be forced to get back to her real life again. She needed necessity to prompt her, and for that to happen, something had to change, or else she'd go on forever just this way. She went back into the living room, and by then the sports was over, and the national news was coming on. Joe smiled again as she walked in, and she smiled back at him. The vanishing ice clinked one last time in her glass as she sat down. There was an anti-persperant commercial. Patty picked up on the subtle violence ( you're wet, you stink, you're gross, stay away from me), and sighed. Joe reached out and touched her hand, but she did not respond in any way. He withdrew his hand slowly.

A computerized ditty heralded the national news, a simulation of typewrite clacking, and the John Drake himself appeared, a computer-tested-handsome man, dark hair, blue eyes, a touch of gray. He smiled and said,

- Good evening. This is the B.B.S. news, John Drake reporting from the capitol. Topping the news tonight, President Harper today vetoed the technology appropriations bill, which contains, among other things, funding for NASA and the oil shale project. In issuing the veto, the President declared that quote in these times, the nation cannot afford such idle luxuries end quote. He further stated that he would ask the Congress to re-appropriate the funds, with most going to the Destitution Institution, and the rest to the Solar Salvation Foundation. For the reaction on Capitol Hill, we turn now to Judy Dreyer. Judy?

- John, the reaction from Congress to the President's veto was mixed, ranging from complete support to all out fuming. Recalling the words of President Kennedy, one senator went so far as to label the President's action a quote betrayal of the people end quote. Many others were more resigned to the action, noting that NASA's budget had been shrinking for years, and that the proposed funds were not enough to accomplish anything major anyway. Another senator told me that since the disastrous crash of the Excalibur Nine in downtown Milwaukee, the agency simply hadn't been the same.

The news went on and on, and during the broadcast Joe's eyes were fixed upon the screen. He was in a totally receptive mode; the images, the words sank into him, encountering no resistance. He was a sponge for information. Patty was careful not to make a sound, except during commercials, but even then they did not duscuss what they had seen. They saved that for later, when the TV set was off. His attitude was respectful, earnest. He admired these reporters, trusted them. And what he heard was vital, nutrition for his mind. As soon as it was over, he got up and turned it off. He sighed deeply, as if he'd been holding that breath for half an hour. Joe took both his empty bottle and Patty's empty glass into the kitche, volunteering to fix her another one. She declined the offer. He got himself another beer, and came back into the room.

Sitting down, he put the Newsbeat on his lap, and turned to look at his wife, but he couldn't think of anything to say, and so he smiled. She had nothing on her mind, either, but returned his smile and picked up The Times. It was open to the crossword puzzle page. The memories this brought back - never failed. They'd spent many lively hours doing these together, in an aura that was the greatest happiness she had ever known. All she ever wanted - peace, ease, simplicity - she had had back then. Yet what had been delightful had grown stale, peace becoming more like death, ease becoming the easy way out, the path of least resistance. Funny how that happened.

It was an easy puzzle, full of greek letters and playing card suits. Patty was filling in the answers, in pen as usual, while Joe sat comfortably reading his magazine. The room was very quiet. They couldn't hear their son upstairs, dismantling Waterloo and trying to think of the next big thing. Every couple of minutes Joe would turn the page. It was a wonder that he didn't need to wear glasses, considering how much he strained his eyes every day. Forty down, correlative of neither. Nor, how simple can you get? Patty was disappointed with the puzzle. Usually they were more complex. She liked a challenge, or at least she liked to think so.

- To fall behind in payments, she said, six letters beginning with an A. What do you think?

Joe thought for a moment or two.

- I don't know, he said.

She skipped it. Joe was reasing an article in the lifestyle section. It was about the importance of friendship. A doctor claimed that loneliness leads to heart disease. It made sense to Joe. Good friends are the measure of a good life, he told himself. The article reported that many more people live alone now than ever before in history. Maybe that's why the world is going crazy. Maybe that's why there's so much indifference in the world. People just don't care anymore. They don't know what's really important in life - love, friendship, and family.

They're selfish people, he decided. They only care about themselves, their interests, their obsessions. They don't know about committment. He looked at Patty, filling in the little boxes in the crossword. She seemed so young, just like when they first met. She doesn't change, he thought, and he was glad of it. He felt they were the most stable couple in the world. He was convinced they would last. He never gave it a second thought.

Chapter six

Sunday dawned with the chirping of the birds, with the drone of the earliest lawnmower. At 55 Canyon Mill Drive, no one was awake yet. It was not an old house, but in comparison with those in the surrounding neighborhoods, that house and that street seemed to belong to an ancient era of suburbia, back when every lot was not required to be exactly the same as every other. The houses on Canyon Mill were different shapes and sizes and colors. 55 was a mostly brick two story dwelling with a large front yard and a small back one. The windows facing the street had blue painted shutters, and on the front door was a brass knocker in the shape of a lion's head. The mailbox out front said Baker.

There was, of course, no canyon and no mill anywhere nearby. When the neighborhood was new, it had been on the outskirts of the city. Now it was practically downtown, or Jamestown itself was now one vast suburb, depending on how you looked at it. The only difference between the actual downtown and here was the lawns. The square patches of grass were the pride of the population. Joe snored peacefully in bed, and Patty in her sleep confused that sound with the lawnmower out somewhere around the corner. All sounds blended in her mind as one appropriate morning noise. She burrowed her head more deeply in her pillow and brought her arms closer to her sides. She was smiling, dreaming only about the noise. Sometimes she felt that the moments just before awakening were the best that life had to offer, and she'd yearn to dwell in that state longer. But Joe's snoring, combined with the loud drone from the mower eventually roused her from that bliss. Her first waking thought was a curse - goddamn that Mr. Bekins! Every god damn sunday morning!

Joe was better-looking while asleep. His thin mustache made his face appear more delicate, and his eyes, when opened, tended to dominate his features, so much so that when they were closed he seemed a different person altogether. And in bed he was much more relaxed than at any other time. Patty propped herself up on her elbow and looked down at him. If only it were possible that people would wake up a different being every day, how much more interesting life would be. Instead, she thought, we're always the same. She wished that somehow she could change overnight so that new thoughts might appear in her mind. At least not to remember who we are. Only when asleep is itpossible to be free from the shackles of identity, and only when our dreams allow it.

She knew that as soon as he awoke he would snap on his other personality at once. He was almost maniacal about this - the continuity. He seemed to need it more than anything else. He had to reassure himself every morning that he was indeed the same Joe Baker, that sleep had robbed him of nothing. Patty had seen this all too often. For the barest moment he would be someone else, at least the potential of being someone else was there, no one in particular, just a man, waking up, and almost as instantly it was gone, he'd pull himself together and be himself again as if he'd always been so. She kissed him on the forehead, and then got out of bed. She stood, for a moment, in front of the window, looking at the houses across the street.

Joe snored again, and as she looked back at him she saw him rolling over onto his stomach. He always did this too; as soon as she vacated her space, he filled it. She wondered if it meant anything, but couldn't recall reading about it anywhere. She pulled up a sleeve of her nightgown and went into the bathroom. There she stopped and admired herself in the mirror - not bad, she thought for the ten thousandth time. As a girl she'd stood like that, complaining, until one day, she must have been fourteen or so, she realized that she was pretty. It had been a funny insight back then, and it still amused her to praise herself. She couldn't help but smile. She'd say to Joe sometimes, hey, you know what? I look pretty damn good. And he'd be there, not looking at her, and he'd say of course you do, hon, in that bland monotone of his. He was not what you might call an inspiring man. He would encourage you, but you could never tell if he really meant it or if he didn't give a shit.

Still, she took him at his word, took him at face value because by now she was convinced that there was nothing much beneath his surface. He was not cunning enough to lie, not subtle enough to be ironic. And he was a man who took others at their word, who assumed they meant exactly what they said, who had no grasp or intuition for the motives of others, who was totally unaware of his own, as if he didn't have any. On the one hand, Patty thought as she stepped into the shower, there is a certain honesty and innocence about him, but on the other hand he lacks depth and any real complexity. But maybe this only reveals my own bias, she reflected, and my inability to truly understand him. For, she decided, he must be more complicated than he seemed. Isn't everyone?

Patty was already downstairs by the time Joe woke up. He hadn't had any dreams. The first thing he was aware of was that profoundly uncomfortable feeling of displacement that accompanied awakening every day. It felt as if he'd been dead all night - he'd been nowhere, suspended in a nontime, was nobody at all. If death was as horrible, as empty, as sleep, he'd never get used to it. It was almost a panic that he felt that moment when he opened up his eyes; his pulse picked up, his breath got short, butonly for a moment before he remembered who and where he was. And then it was okay. He'd sigh in relief and quickly resume his ordinary life.

He inspected the room, making sure that everything was right. Yes, the walls were still canary yellow. Yes, the spruce was still outside the window. Patty's blue dresser was the same, top drawers half open, underwear hanging out. He touched his face, making sure his mustache was still the same, that his hair was still on his head. Only after this inspection could he return to his normal placid calm. IN a sense, his greatest joy followed immediately upon his greatest dread. He feared, more than anything, that things would not be the way he remembered, for then either he would have lost his mind or the rest of the world would have gone crazy. And so it was almost with a thrill to discover that everything was still the same as it had been the day before. For Patty the daile repetition of small things in life was a nagging sore, a dragging annoyance from which there was no escape, but for Joe this very same repetitiousness was the elixir of life, the fountain of youth. Heaven, for him, would be a place where every day was exactly the same and there was no sleep.

He leaned up on his elbows and smiled, a special morning smile that Petty jad never understood, that he'd never been able to explain to her. But since it was a special smile, and one to be reserved for this occasion only, it quickly vanished from his face, and he went about his usual waking up routine. This was always the same, on weekends as well as weekdays. From getting out of bed to going downstairs there was no variation. He showered the same way, in the same temperature water, for the same amount of time. He brushed his teeth, combed his hair and got dressed the same way every day. He never admired himself in the mirror.

He prided himself on his efficiency - the way he did things was the best way they could be done. He made no wasted motions, no extraneous gestures. Life was a precise science, and in the effecting of this precision was its art and its beauty. Just as books should balance out just right, so too in life every moment had to be appropriate, and in proper order. Others saw this as compulsion, as eccentricity, at worst as obsession, but to Joe it was the right way to live, and he couldn't do it any other way. Towels should be folded just so, exactly this much toilet paper should be used at a time, just this many strokes of the razor were necessary for shaving. And naturally, since it was his profession and major talent, he counted everything. At least he kept this to himself, having how learned how irritated other people could become when he tried to communicate his findings. Other folks were wasteful, but not Joe. He was truly a conservative, in the most fundamental sense of the word.

Patty had just sat down with a cup of coffee, and was about the read the sunday paper, when Mark came bounding down the stairs and rushed into the kitchen demanding to know what was for breakfast and wehn it would be ready. He was wearing his old gray corduroys and a white tee shirt with several large holes in it, the latterin order to aggravate his mother.

- I thought I told you to throw that shirt away, Patty said, and Mark grinned as he leaned against the table.

- Oh mom, he said, it's my favorite.

- Well, it's time you found another favorite, because I'm going to throw it away if you don't.

- What's for breakfast? he asked again, and Patty sighed. She hadn't had a chance to do much but glance at the front page and notice the major headlines.

- What would you like?

- I dunno, Mark shrugged.

- Well, you make up your mind first, okay? She returned to the paper, hoping that her strategy would put him off for a little while. It didn't work, though. Mark was craving her attention. He jumped up onto the table and sat there, knowing that she didn't like him doing that. He looked at her and said,

- Guess what I'm going to do today? Me and Jimmy Rodgers are going down to Mason Pond and catch us some turtles, and then we're going to cook them and eat them for lunch.

- No, your're not, his mother replied, still trying to read the main story, which was about how outraged most people were that NASA was going to be abolished. It had been dominating the news for about a week.

- Yes, I am, Mark said. Jimmy and me planned it all out yesterday. There's this barbecue pit near the pond and he'd going to get some charcoal from his dad and I'm going to bring the matches, and we're going to roast them.

Patty wasn't sure why Mark was making up this story, but he was obviously making it up because he hadn't even seen his friend Jimmy the day before. It was just like Mark, though, to try and gross her out. He was always doing that. He knew that if he talked about killing things, she'd get upset and talk to him. So she put down the paper ( which wasn't that interesting anyway; some people are for it, some are against, it's an outrage, a disgrace, about time, the smartest thing anybody ever did) and said,

- No, you're not, because we're all going over to the Larson's today for a picnic.

- Oh mom, do I have to? Mark whined. He already knew that was the plan, because he'd been reminded about it yesterday, and then he'd said exactly the same thing, Òoh mom do I have to?Ó and she'd patiently explained yes, he did, and it was going to be fun, and Ricky Ducek was going to be there and they could play volleyball and other things.

- Mark, she said, why do you make me say everything twice? You know we're going today, and you know what I told you. WHy do you always have to give me a hard time?

At this he relented, and even slid off the table without her having to tell him to. He took his seat beside her and looked at her with that wide open stare he invariably used on these occasions.

- I'm sorry, mom, he said, not sorry at all but simply attempting to elicit the appropriate response, which she promptly gave him. She got up and said,

- How about pancakes? Would you like pancakes for breakfast?

- Banana pancakes? he asked.

- Sure, she said, if that's what you want.

- That'd be great, mom, he said.

He looked so sweet now that she couldn't resist going over and tossling his hair. He leaned his head against her and smiled.

- You're the best mom, he said.

Patty smiled, thinking how come I still fall for this routine? Everytime. This kid is such a manipulator. She let go, and went over the sink where she proceeded to get things together. Mark grabbed the comics page and started reading. While Patty measured out the flour and the baking powder, she thought of how many sunday mornings had started out exactly the same way, down to the very moment. Even the newspaper was the same. The story might superficially be different, but all you had to do was change a few nouns, a few names, and it all came out the same. And she was getting sick and tired about always thinking about how everything was always the same. She realized that she was in a rut, but it wasn't the first time she'd realized that either. Lately it was all she could think about and she knew that something somehow had to change - any change at all would do. She was chopping the bananas and dumping them into the mixing bowl when Joe entered the kitchen.

- Morning, hon, he said. Morning, Mark.

- Hello dear, Patty said without turning around. Mark didn't say anything but kept on reading through the comics. Joe came over to his wife and said,

- Mmm, pancakes.

- Uh huh, Patty said.

She cracked an egg into the bowl and poured in some melted butter and stirred all the stuff together. Joe retreated to the table where he sat down and immediately picked up the front section.

- Still that NASA thing, he observed.

- Uh huh, Patty said.

- Anything funny in there today? he asked his son, but Mark only shrugged and turned the page. The boy wasn't smiling, Joe noticed. Apparently there was nothing funny in the comics. Joe didn't utter another word until Patty placed a stack of pancakes in front of him, at which time he said thanks and dutifully put thepaper down. He waited until she served herself and sat down, before he began to eat.

- These are great, Mark said with his mouth full.

- Thanks, dear, his mother said.

They ate mostly in silence. Every now and then Marked looked at his mother and smiled, and she'd smile back at him. Joe would look at her and smile, and she'd smile back at him as well. Joe looked at his son and smiled, but Mark would not even look at him. Joe had noticed that lately his son was ignorning him. He'd talked to Patty about and she'd assured him that it was just a phase. Mark liked to think that he was the man of the house, and he could only think that as long as he pretended his father did not exist. All boys go through it, Patty had said. She'd read about it somewhere.

- Guess who's going to be there today? Patty asked when they were all done eating. Both husband and son replied in unison.

- Who?

- I told you to guess, she said, but as neither of them did, she added,

- Basic!

- Basic? Joe replied. Is he back from the vets?

- Uh huh, Patty said. Ruth and Harry picked him up last night. He's completely recovered. At least that's what the vet told them.

- What was wrong with him? asked Mark.

- They're really not sure, Patty said. Some kind of distemper or something.

- He went crazy, Joe said.

- Dogs don't go crazy, Mark retorted. Only people do.

- Well, crazy or not, Patty said, he certainly acted that way. Ruth and Harry were pretty scared there for awhile, scared he might bite someone and have to be put to sleep.

- What'd he do anyway? Mark asked.

Joe started to answer, but Patty interrupted.

- He went beserk one night and attacked the television set.

- Really? Mark laughed.

- Yeah, Patty laughed too. They were all just sitting there watching the B.B.S. news, and all at once he began to growl and the next thing they knew he'd jumped up and knocked it over. They thought he'd broken it, but it'd only come unplugged. And he was going wild, barking at it and trying to bite it and everything...

She started to laugh again, so Joe picked up the story.

- Anyway, he said, they had to call the vets and they came over and threw a net over him and took him away.

- But he's okay now, Patty said. And they're going to bring him over to the Larson's today.

- I hope he doesn't attack me, Mark said.

- No, no, he's okay now, Patty reassured him.

- I bet they won't be watching TV anymore over there, Mark said.

- That could be aproblem, Joe said thoughtfully, but Patty and Mark were laughing, not listening to him. Patty got up and began to clear the table. Mark helped.

- I'll dry the dishes, he offered.

- Thanks, she said, that would be nice.

As the two of them were cleaning up, Joe finished his coffee and returned his attention to the front page once again. There were several articles of interest to read. A train had derailed just on the outskirts of town, killing three and injuring several others. The cost was placed in the hundreds of thousands of dollars. There was a peace treaty being signed and a picture of the beaming former enemies shaking hands. Harper had made the news again, gone off to Detroit to inaugurate a new building and mentioning, incidentally, that this was another fine project from the Destitution Institution.

On page two there was an article about the planned private sector mission to Neptune, as well as a status report on the Voyager Nineteen, which was getting closer to Uranus every day. Also, a man in Wetford had shot his wife and tried, unsuccessfully, to kill himself. Four men were arrested in the suburb of Gettings on charges of armed robbery, stemming from an incident that had occurred the week before at the Fourth Fidelity Bank downtown. Joe had been interested in the case, since it was only a few blocks from his office. He'd been at lunch at the time and was sure he'd heard the sirens of the police cars. He was glad the perpetrators had been caught. They ought to be put away for a long time. He said as much to Patty, but she was busy washing the dishes and probably didn't hear him. In any event, she didn't reply.

Mark was talking to her about something that had happened in school - a rare occasion, because he didn't like to talk about school that much, except to complain that he had to go. Joe was too busy reading to hear what his son was saying, but hepicked up that it had something to do with math. He smiled when he heard the word. It was good that his son should be interested in math. Math could teach you a lot about life, when you thought about it. Actually, Mark was saying how much he hatedit, it was so boring and meaningless. He was asking his mother why they had to teach it, and she explained to him that math was very important, that you had to know it in order to get along in the world, and that one day he'd appreciate it more, and be glad he'd learned it.

- I don't know, he said. You know what I really like? History. Now that's really interesting. All those battles and heroes and everything.

- History is important, too, Patty said.

- We're studying the civil war, Mark said. You know, it just doesn't seem right that the north won. The south had better generals.

- Maybe, she said, but they had slavery, and that was wrong.

- I guess so, Mark said, drying a plate. It's just too bad, though.

- How come you always w\make the losers win when you're playing? she asked him, sensing a good opportunity to broach the subject.

Mark was silent for a minute, as if unsure. Finally, he said,

- I don't know. Just to make it different, I guess. I mean, history is all in the past and you can't change it, you know? It's all done and over with and that's the way it's always going to be. I just wish it wasn't like that. I mean, they never get another chance. I like to give them another chance so that things can be different for a change. There's nothing wrong with that, is there? It doesn't mean anything. I know it's only make believe.

This was not the answer Patty had expected to receive. She thought he'd say something about how the wrong guys always won when they shouldn't have, that in history you could always tell the real bad guys because they were always the ones who won. She thought that was what he was up to. Or else he'd say something about how the smaller guy is really better than the bigger guy, as in himself as opposed to his father. But what he said made a lot of sense to her - the idea that things could be different appealed to her.

- No, it's not wrong, she said. It's alright, as long as you know that that's not the way it really was. It's good to pretend sometimes.

Joe would not have agreed with her had he been paying attention to them. For him, history was sacred, and she knew very well what he would have said. It disturbed him that the boy was forever playing these games. Facts are facts and you shouldn't mess around with them. Besides, it bode no good to muck with the truth the way Mark did. It was all confusing enough already. But Joe had never gotten a chance to say those things to his son, because Patty had kept him from doing so. In fact, he'd never really lectured his son about anything. Patty was so much better at that kind of thing.

Just as Mark was explaining his games to his mother, Joe came across an interesting artcile which shed new light on a case he had been following with interest for some time. About a year before, a woman had been convicted of tracking down and executing a television reporter who had gotten her into trouble with the law. The reporter had broadcast a story accusing this woman of running an illegal gambling operation in one of the city's classier hotels, unbeknownst to the management, of course. Several witnesses corroborated the story and the woman was indicted and convicted of the crime, although she had pleaded not guilty and there was plenty of evidence to support her claim. After serving six months in prison, she emerged a broke and broken person. Shortly thereafter, the reporter was murdered and she was arrested again. Again she pled not guilty. Joe had never been sure what to believe about this case. And now it turned out that it was the reporter who had actually been running the gambling operation, and had continued to run it in a new location after the woman had gone to jail. It also turned out that this same reporter had been attempting to blackmail a reputed mafia kingpin, who had had him killed for it.

All of this altered the story considerably, and one question was still on everyone's mind - what did the woman have to do with any of this? As it turned out, nothing. It was almost as if they'd pulled her name out of a hat. She just happened to be a coatcheck clerk in the same hotel and was a convenient scapegoat. Now that the truth was out, she'd been pardoned and released from prison. The reporters asked her how she felt, to which she replied quote how the hell do you think I feel end quote. Still, the newspaper sermonized, in the long run justice had been served and everything had worked out for the best. Fate had not been kind to the woman, but it was all over and done with now. The woman was very bitter. Joe described the story to Patty after she sat down again and Mark had gone off to play in his room.

- Poor thing, Patty said.

- It's strange, Joe said.

He was very uncomfortable with this kind of thing. He liked unambiguous stories, stories that made sense. It disturbed him when things were turned on their heads.

- Life can be so strange, he said. The most unusual things happen sometimes.

To other people, she thought, and in her mind she put herself in that woman's place. How would she feel? How the hell do you think I feel! She picked up the book review section and settled back to read it. All at once she had a horrible thought. That the woman was going to write a book about what happened to her. Not only that, but someone else, a journalist perhaps, and probably a female one, would also write a book about the case, and so it would never end. We'd still be hearing about it years from now, and with all the righteous pronouncements that were inevitable, that it was a travesty of justice, a miscarriage, a cruel trick, a stroke of bad luck, the power of the media, the unbridled license, something that must be done, top make sure that such a thing could never happen again, the restrictions on the press, the first amendment, the legalization of, the one bad apple that doesn't spoil, and so on. Patty could already hear the trivial solemnities, the pompous idiocies. It occurred to her that truth is even more pathetic than fiction.

All of this she could not communicate to her husband, for he would definitely not be able to make any sense of it. He'd think she was being too cynical, and maybe she was. As far as Joe was concerned, this case was unique. He couldn't see how it had so much in common with every other kind of scandal. They are all the same, every one. Good eventually triumphs over evil, the truth will out, all skeletons in closets eventually come to light. No doubt that's what he was probably thinking now, and probably something about only in america as well. As far as he was concerned there were really only two sides to every issue, the good and the bad. The reporter was bad, the woman was good. What could be more obvious? And even though the bad may seem to get away with it for awhile, in the end they have to pay for the sufffering they cause to the good - but that left the actual killer, this reputed mafia kingpin ( and where else do you hear that word Ôreputed' , Patty thought, except when connected to the words Ômafia kingpin'. Or Ôkingpin' itself, for that matter? As if all three words were a matched set).

Patty couldn't help but think of the killer in the book she'd finally finished the night before - he'd killed more than two dozen people. He was still at large. Most likely he would never be caught. Who said there was justice in the world? People nowadays can get away with anything. She knew her husband's faith was far too simplistic, and she wondered how he managed to maintain it in the face of all the readily available evidence. She realized that he had the enviable talent of not noticing anything he didn not want to notice. In this way he kept his fairy tale intact. She dropped this line of thought, and turned her attention to the book reviews.

All this, too, was a ritual. Joe and Patty methodically read through the sunday paper, always in the same sequence of sections so that they were never in conflict with each other. During this time they rarely spoke, only once in awhile to relate an item which the other had already read or was going to read in any case. They sat there with their second cups of coffee absorbing information. It would give them something to talk about later. Yet, as much as the redundancy repulsed her, Patty really enjoyed this rite. It was one of the few repetitive activities she'd been able to tolerate lately, and she could even understand, and relate in some small way to Joe's love of habit. There was something soothing about it, the same feeling that people have about going to church every week and hearing the identical sermon, over and over again. There was a power in the force of habit. It was an addiction more powerful than almost anything except perhaps the laws of gravity.

Finally they were done with it, and it was almost time to get everything together and head over to the Larson's. They had to pick up the Sellers' and their dog on the way. Mark didn't even make a fuss. He was looking forward to playing with Ricky. The boys had been good friends for a long time, even though they had almost nothing in common. Mark always got to be the leader, and Ricky seemed happy as a subordinate. It was odd, considering their fathers were just the opposite. Bob Ducek, an aggressive man, had somehow raised a passive, bookish boy while Joe, a weaker sort, had a tougher son. Maybe the boys compensated for their father's lacks. Patty liked to think so, anyway.

Chapter seven

Harry, Ruth and Basic were already waiting on their front lawn when the Bakers' old station wagon pulled into the driveway. Everybody waved hello. Basic was full of energy, and he leaped up at the door on Patty's side so enthusiastically that she was afraid for a moment. The Ruth whistled him back and told him to calm down. Still he was so frisky that he kept jumping up at her as she came towards the car.

- Down, Basid, down! she commande to no avail. Harry came behind her, chuckling.

- You see? He's back to normal, he called out to them. Patty said,

- Yes, I can see that.

She opened her door and stepped out, and Basic rushed by her and hopped into the car, climbing over the seats until he was all the way in the back with Mark. They wrestled affectionately as Harry and Ruth got in.

- Yep, he's the same old troublemaker, Ruth said.

She was always complaining about how he ruined a carpet or knocked over a plant or pissed on the bed, but she loved him dearly. Harry settled in and said,

- So how's it going with you guys?

- Pretty good, said Joe. No reason to complain.

- Glad to hear it, Harry said.

He was wearing a pair of khaki shorts and a bermuda shirt - his usual sunday outfit - while Ruth relaxed in jeans and an old tee shirt. During the week they both dressed rather formally. Ruth was almost twice Harry's size, and they were the happiest couple Patty had ever known. They were kind to and tolerant of each other to an extraordinary degree. Patty had noticed how during the years they'd been married, Ruth had become less shrill and Harry more at ease with himself. Yet he was still a mild man, unable to get really excited about anything, while Ruth was intense about every little thing. She called out now

- Down, Basic, down! That dog! I swear he never calms down.

- I hope he hasn't attacked any TV's lately, Patty said.

= Not yet, Ruth laughed, but who knows what he'll do next?

Joe had pulled out into the street and began to crosstown drive to the Larson's more suburban home. He asked,

- What did they do to him? At the vets?

- Nothing, Ruth laughed again and slapped the seat. Truth is, they didn't know what to do with him. So they gave him a sedative but that wore off and he was the same as before, so they sent him home. They told me, that's just how he is, we have to live with it.

- A crazy dog is a crazy dog, said Harry.

- He's not crazy, Marked pitched in from the back, he's just happy.

Ruth laughed and said that Mark was right.

- It's just his nature, she said.

Meanwhile Basic, a great big golden retriever, had stuck his head out the back window and was watching the world recede. It kept on going, as the wind pressed his ears against his head.

- I'm wondering what they've been up to, Patty said. You know Grant and Christine. Everytime we go over there they have something new they just have to show us. What do you think it is this time?

- Maybe they've finally built that new wing, Ruth said. They've been talking about it for months now.

- Joan'll die, Patty said.

- But she has a baby, said Ruth.

- And love is more important than money, the women chimed together, laughing, imitating Mrs. Ducek.

Joe had been paying close attention to the road in front of him, but now as he pulled onto the highway, he relaxed a little. On the highway cars were going much too fast to worry about. The momentum keeps you going and all the cars are following the draft of some long gone leader. The groove permitted him to speak, so he said,

- How were things at work this week?

- Pretty good, Harry said. There was a nasty foul up coming through the system, but Ruth spotted it in time. So we reworked the program and set everything straight.

- We didn't rework it, Ruth put it, Harry did. I didn't know what the hell it was, it just seemed wrong to me. So I pointed it out to him and turned out to be a genuine bug. Beat the hell out of me, but Harry just plugged away until he figured it out.

- But I didn't even see it coming, Harry said.

Patty could tell that they'd had this conversation before between themselves. She could never understand how the two of them could do it. They worked together, lived together, played together, were almost never apart. It had all begun that day when Harry's boss had introduced her to him, saying he thought they'd make a good team. The rest was indelible. Why is it that some people are meant for each other, while other people aren't meant for anyone? Or is it simply a matter of meeting with the right accident? Joe always said that he fell in love with her the moment he first saw her, working her crossword puzzle on the bus going home. Was that destiny?

- I liked your column this week, Ruth was saying. It's true what you wrote. We don't give enough credit to people who simply endure. Everybody's talking about heroes all the time. Well, heroics only last a moment, the rest of the time you just have to get by.

- Thanks, Patty said. You know, I think you're the only person who still reads the Gazette.

- I read it, honey, Joe said.

- Of course you do, she said. That's not what I meant.

- I read it, mom, Mark said, and everybody laughed. It was true, he did read his mother's columns, not that he always understood them. He was sure she was the smartest person in the world. Certainly she was the smartest mom.

The scenery whizzed by and might as well not have been there. It wasn't much to look at around here. There were several new neighborhoods springing up next to the old ones which had been built only a few years before. They all had houses and shopping centers, a school and a police station. From the highway it was as if all these places existed in a time warp, in slow motion. They weren't real unless you lived there, or knew someone who did. They all had names you otherwise wouldn't recognize. The landscape was changing drastically from month to month, as the Jamestown area boomed. Fewer and fewer people wanted to live in the city. More and more wanted to live near it. Joe and Patty wouldn't have wanted to moved out to these new tracts even if they could afford it. They liked their neighborhood, where not everything was exactly alike.

- There's the SpringHill Lake development, Ruth pointed out.

Its straight streets were the springs, its parking lots the lake. Everyone was glad they weren't living there. Bob and Joan did live there, and were forever planning to move out as soon as they could afford to. Now with the baby growing up and Ricky getting old enough to have his own room, a move was becoming more imperative than ever. Christine was trying to find them something, but it wasn't easy, in those days. Joe jad been reading only last week that although inflation was down, there was a scarcity of reasonably priced housing, and interest rates were still ridiculous.

Soon Joe saw exit thirty one approaching ( one and half miles, right lane , exit only) so he maneuvered into the right lane and slowed down a little. It was time to concentrate again. Patty and Ruth were talking about Patty's next column - she was thinking of writing an article about courtesy as artifice. So often politeness is a ruse, to get you to buy, to come again soon. She was wondering whether that was undermining the whole idea in the culture at large. It seemed to her that people should be friendly because they feel like it, not because it's good for business. Joe wasn't sure there was necessarily a difference, but Ruth was agreeing with her, pointing out how young people are being trained that way, so the only way they know it as a technique to be utilized in order to manipulate others.

- That's what I was thinking, Patty said. It's more a trick than anything else.

- I don't think, Ruth said, that it's a new development. It's been going on for years, centuries even.

- Hmm, you're right, Patty said. Maybe there really is nothing new. Sometimes I wonder why I even bother to write anything at all. It doesn't do any good.

- Yes, Ruth said, but then again, why not? It doesn't do any bad either.

- I suppose not, Patty said.

And then they were turning into the wide street where the Larsons lived. Here the lawns were comparatively large, and the houses weren't homes, but Ôdesigner residences'. Grant and Christine had money, and they made sure that everyone knew it. Money didn't buy them happiness, it was their happiness. They would never tire of it.

The successful advertising man and his equally successful real estate selling wife came to meet them at the door. The Duceks had only just arrived, and were out in the back yard. Grant was especially glad to see Basic. The two of them wrestled in the long hallway until Basic started barking and Ruth said they dhouldn't get him too excited. They had not, after all, built thenew wing, but they had repainted several of the rooms canary yellow. Christine said she thought it made the place seem sunnier, and everyone agreed with her. Soon they were all out back, greeting Bob and Joan and Ricky, smiling at Jill, the baby. She was almost two years olf, and very cute.

Jill was a bit frightened by Basic and all of the people all of a sudden, and she clung to her mother. Joan laughed and teased her,

- Now, Jill, you know everyone. Say hello.

But Jill turned her head away and tried to hide in her mother's breast.

- She's a bit shy, Joan said.

Everyone could tell that. Babies were not aliens to them, but around Joan you could get the feeling that she was the only one who'd ever had one. SHe certainly was dedicated to being the perfect mom.

- Come on, honey, it's okay, she whispered to her precious, as Patty and Ruth sat down on the bench beside them. Christine excused herself and went back into the house. The men were standing around as Grant ran down the menu for everyone. There was watermelon and barbecued chicken and potato salad and homemade salad for dessert.

- Wait'll you taste it, Grant said. We just got the machine last week. What a great invention!

- We used to have one, Bob said. It broke.

Mark and Ricky were chasing Basic around the yard. The dog was much faster than them, and after a little while they gave up and plopped down on the grass. Basic came over and stood by them, panting loudly.

- You're lucky, Ricky said. You don't have a baby sister. God, what a pain in the ass!

The boys snickered. Mark rolled over on his back and stared up at the cloudless sky.

- If this was last year, he said, we wouldn't even be in school yet.

- Yeah, Ricky said, turning on his side. Maybe we'll get lucky again and they'll go on strike for a whole year!

- I hope so, Mark said.

- I wish we never had to come here, Ricky said. The Larsons are such show-offs.

- Yeah, like your mom, Mark said. All she ever talks about is Jill.

- What about your dad, said Ricky. I'll bet he's standing over there right now saying Ôdid you see that article in The Times today?'.

Mark laughed, and said,

- At least they have a swimming pool. My mom said we could go swimming if we want.

- Yeah, but we're going to be here all day, Ricky said. Probly till night.

- So what do you want to do? Mark asked, already knowing the answer.

- I dunno, Ricky said. What do you want to do?

- I dunno, Mark said.

He knew they'd think of something. It was always like that with Ricky. Sometimes they liked to play at being bored, and they'd sit around seeing who could complain the most. Then they'd really get bored and wrestle or something, only Mark wouldn't try too hard because he was older and bigger and stronger. Other kids he would play rough with, but not Ricky, because it wasn't fair, and anyway, they were buddies.

- Do you think Basic is going to bite someone? Ricky asked.

- Maybe he will, Mark said.

Basic was lying down by the pool now, staring into the chlorine blue. He was noticing how the wind made the water move, gentle ripples coming across the pool, and how the little waves bounced off the side and started going the other way. There were a few dead leaves in the water, swimming around. He studied them closely, marking their movements. He listened to the drone of the pump buried somewhere underground. Ruth was looking at him, telling Bob and Joan about the incident. Bob thought it was hilarious and laughed loudly, while Joan was concerned and worried about her baby. Patty was wondering if it could really be the same dog who was lying there so peacefully now.

- We just landed the FedCorTron account, Grant was telling Harry and Joe, as the three of them were scooping martinis out of the punch bowl.

- The first thing we ought to do, I was telling myself, is to get them to change their name. FedCorTron is so hard to say. It should be something easier, like, oh I don't know.

- I've seen their ads in The Times, Joe said.

- Primitive stuff, said Grant. Just lists of things and how much they cost. Nobody reads that kind of thing. Besides, they're so much more than a department store. You probably have no idea how many other companies they own. I said, pretty girls, that's what they need. Pretty girls, and lots of them.

- Nowadays, Harry put in, pretty girls sell everything.

- Exactly, said GRant.

- I don't know, said Joe, hestantly. Seems to me hat, well, just providing the essential information is good enough.

- Sure, Grant said. You've got to give them the info, but you have to dress it up a bit. That's what it's all about. You catch their eye, and when you've got their attention, then you give it to them.

- I guess you're right, Joe said.

- Of course I am, said Grant. That's the business, in a nutshell.

The three of them took their drinks over to where the others were gathered. It really was a nice place, a sprawling, spanish colonial style house with a back yard twice the size of the Ducek's townhouse. There were three large bedrooms, only Grant and Christine used only one of them, two living rooms, an enormous wood panelled kitchen and a den with plush blue carpets and an oak cabinet housing a monstrous television screen. They had a man who came around every other saturday to do the lawn and garden, and another who did the pool. They had two cars in their three car garage. When not at work, they were working at home: Christine, pouring through the brochures that arrived daily in heaps, and Grant, smoking his pipe, his feet propped up, reading his trade journals. They had no time for children, couldn't be bothered with them, really. Kids are such a nuisance.

Christine emerged balancing a tray loaded with watermelon slices and a bucket of potato salad. Bob went over and said,

- Here, let me give you a hand with those.

- No, it's okay, Christine said, I've got it.

Bob insisted and took the tray from her, and staggered with it to the picnic table, where Joan said,

- Oh, how lovely.

- Don't all grab at once, Christine cheerily called out. There's plenty more inside.

Ricky and Mark rushed over at the sight of food and immediately grabbed the biggest slices of watermelon and started to run away with them, but Joan said they should stay right where they were. It wouldn't do to have them spitting watermelon seeds all over the Larsons' impeccable lawn. Ricky started to protest, but since Mark just sat down on the grass right there, he did too, and they began a contest to see who could finish first.

Grant had come over and started unwrapping the package of plain paper plates, but Christine asked him to go check on the chicken, as it should be done any minute now. They barbecued in the oven. Joe offered to help and tagged along behind him.

- It's hard to believe it's still August, Patty said to Joan. What with the kids back in school and everything.

- I know what you mean, Joan said. Poor kids. They really didn't get enough of summer this year. It really isn't fair. Those teachers weren't thinking of the kids when they went on strike. They were only thinking of themselves.

- They lost a month of summer,too, said Patty. And anyway, they hadn't gotten a raise in over three years.

- I know, Joan said, but there must be another way than going on strike.

- Well, at least it won't happen again this year, Patty concluded.

- Does Jill eat chicken? Christine asked. I'm sorry, I don't remember.

- She loves it, Joan said. And just in case I brought some fruit along. You can never tell what she's going to want from day to day. She gets so finicky sometimes.

- Basic'll eat anything he can get his paws on, Ruth put in. I swear, that dog is more trouble than any human I ever met.

- Dogs are like that, Christine smiled.

Dogs are like that, and babies are like this, and everything's so well defined, Patty thought as she picked up a slice of watermelon. Little boys are this and wives are that and everyone thinks it's so simple. But it's not really like that. Sometimes wives act like little boys, and little boys like dogs, while babies act like what some people think woives are supposed to be. It's all tangled up, too complicated to deal with.

- Basic's like a person sometimes, Ruth said to her. Know what I mean?

Joe couldn't understand a shoe commercial he'd seen on TV, and Grant was trying to explain it to him, as they waited for the chicken to get done.

- The thing is, Grant said, all a TV commercial is supposed to do is stick the name of the product in your mind. And see? You remembered the name of the shoe company, so it worked.

- I don't get it, Joe said. There were all these people flashing on and off the screen, and a new kind of F Ôn R song playing, and it had nothing at all to do with shoes, until they flashed the name on at the end.

- What kind of people were they? Grant asked. Were they young?

- Yeah, I guess so.

- Did they look good? All made up and everything?

- Well, yeah, the way kids look today.

- And the music was fast? The pace was fast?

- Too fast, really.

- It's all very simple, Grant said. What they're telling you, in a subtle way, only not so subtle because it's been done so many times by now, is that popular young people wear X brand of shoes, so if you wear X brand of shoes you'll be popular and young.

- That's it? Joe asked.

- Uh huh.

Grant opened up the oven door again, and decided that the chicken was ready.

- Gimme that pot holder, will you?

Joe handed it to him, and decided that now he understood the ad. He thought there was some greater meaning behind it, but there wasn't. Harry was sitting quietly on the edge of the bench nearest the two boys, and sipping his martini every now and then while not looking at anything in particular. There was nothing you could ask him that Ruth couldn't answer better. She was the social side of the duo. She gabbed and Harry daydreamed. Patty used to feel sorry for him until she realized that he was as happy as he possibly could be. His problems were either easily solved or needed no solution. He showed his love by his utter dependence. He respected Joe as no one else did, and asked for nothing in return. Still Patty wanted to have a real talk with him someday, always had. She was endlessly curious about the little man, yet she had never found the correct way to approach him. Even with longtime best friends intimacy is tricky. It must be a precise science, she thought, and I was never good at science. One day, she thought, she'd get drunk and blurt something out, like ÔHarry! who the hell are you anyway?'. He'd laugh it off, perhaps, but wouldn't have an answer. Ruth knew him far better than he knew himself, and Patty had already heard her version: Harry's sweet, the sweetest man in the world, Ruth would say, but that wasn't saying much. And Joe? He was dependable. He was definitely that! She turned to Ruth, and said,

- Words bother me.

- Why?

- They're too easy.

Ruth understood, or seemed to, because she didn't answer.

- Chicken! Ricky and Mark yelled in unison as Grant and Joe came through the back door with platters stacked with steaming black red bird parts. Ruth and Patty stood and made room for them to get through. Basic kept jumping up at Grant and Ruth had to pull him away and hold him down, promising chicken if he behaved himself.

- Anyone want a beer? Grant asked after he'd set his platter on the table.

- Did you put the rest in the oven? Christine asked, and he nodded.

- Four beers, I'll get them, Joe said.

Mark and Ricky disappeared with plates full of chicken and potato salad. They went around to the dront of the house and are on the steps. The neighborhood was very quiet. They didn't see anyone.

- Sure is good, Mark said, eating too quickly.

- Mmf, Ricky agreed, swallowing.

- They sure are funny people, Mark said. Barbecues are s'posed to be outside, not in the kitchen.

- It's less messy this way, Ricky said.

- So what?

- I'll just have a wing, dear, Harry said to his wife. I'm not very hungry.

She gave him a wing and took a breast for herself. She was glad when Joe handed her a beer and took a big swig from the bottle. Patty was busy handing out paper towels to everyone.

- Remember when we all went to the park that day? Christine asked.

- Norton Park, said Joan.

- There's a shopping center on it now, said Bob.

- That was only a few years ago, Grant said.

- Five, said Joan. Five years ago.

- And here we are now, Patty said. Five years older and the same as ever.

- You think so? Grant asked. Are we really all the same?

- When we were in college, Bob said, you were going to be an architect, remember? And I was going to be an engineer, and we were going to build the tallest building in the world.

- Yeah, but somebody beat us to it, Grant said, and laughed.

- You know, Patty said, there's always been a tallest building in the world, ever since the first hut.

- That's true, Ruth said. I never thought of it that way.

- And Joe, Bob continued, was going to be a reporter, only he married one instead. Harry, hell, you always were a computer whiz. You haven't changed.

- Do you still think about engineering? Harry asked him. Do you ever think that maybe you still want to do it?

- Naw, Bob answered immediately. I never had a head for it, really.

- You don't give yourself enough credit, Joan said. You never do.

Jill was doing fine with the chicken, but she kept getting potato salad all over her face and her mother's shirt. She'd grab a handful, and fling it, giggling.

- No! Joan commanded her. Don't do that!

Jill ignored her. Basic was standing near them, his head slightly cocked, intrigued by the little girl. He couldn;t get enough of her. Every now and then Jill pointed and gurgled Ôdoggy' and Basic wagged his tail furiously and grinned.

- I like what I'm doing now, Bob insisted, though the money could be better, but I'm working on it. I expect to land a big sale any day now. Corpotek. You heard of them, Grant?

Corpotek? I don't think so, What line are they in?

- Consultants.

- Weren't they in the news a couple of weeks ago? JOe asked. Some kind of innovation, wasn't it?

- You tell me, old man, said Bob. All I know is they like our new software.

- Software, hardware, underwear, Ruth murmered to Patty, causing her to laugh.

- No, now I remember, Joe said. It was their president, uh, Jack Farber I think. He just wrote this book about new management techniques, and it was written up in Newsbeat. He says you should encourage your employees every now and then, and not be afraid to criticize them. They key is constant communication of any kind.

- That's nothing new, said Grant.

- No, but the book is, Joe replied.

- There's a big commission in it for me, said Bob. That is, if they go for it, and I think they will. Their response has been really positive so far.

- Don't go counting your chickens just yet, Grant said. There's a lot of competition out there.

- Don't I know it, Bob said wearily.

- This is just great, Joan said, repositioning the baby on her lap. Jill was trying to squirm away and play with doggy, but Joan wasn't letting go.

- Nothing special, Christine said. It's really easy to make.

- I meant to tell you about this, Ruth said to Patty. I came across this article last week by a psychiatrist, I don't remember her name. It's all about reversal, you know, like Mark and his war games? This lady says there's really two sides to it. Sometimes we live our dreams, act them out in reality, though inside we know they're not really real - oh, how did she put it? Anyway, then she says that sometimes we live our ordinary lives and only dream our dreams, but think that they're the things that are really real. Oh, I'm not saying it right. I saved it for you. I have it at home. Anyway, basically she says that it's just as good to pretend you're something that you're not as it is trying to be something you're not in reality, you know what I mean?

- I don't know, Patty said. I think I understand.

Jill managed to wriggle out of hermother's grasp and climbed down underneath the table, where Basic joined her. He sniffed her while she patted his head.

- Nice doggy, she said. Good doggy.

- Jill? WHat are you doing down there? her mother called to her.

- Playing with the nice doggy, she said.

- It's okay, Ruth assured her. He's great with little kids.

- I'm worried for him, Joan said. There's no telling what this girl will do.

Mark and Ricky returned and put their plates on the table.

- Where have you two been? Joan asked.

- We ate out front, Mrs. Ducek, Mark answered.

- Can we go for a swim? Ricky asked her.

- Not for awhile, she said. You have to wait for half an hour, else you'll get cramps.

- Okay, Ricky said. Let's go get some water, he said to Mark, and the two of them ran into the house.

- I don't think they'll pass it, Bob said, it's too one-sided, and anyway, the rich people don't like it, and you know they really run the show.

- Things are changing, Grant said. Harper's really turning things around. Just look what he did to the interior department. Totally turned it inside out.

- So now it's the Department of the Exterior? Bob cracked.

- He's getting everyything he wants, Joe said. So he'll probably get the tax bill too. I don't think it's so bad, considering what it could be.

- Of course it's bad, said Bob. It should be fair for everyone, but he wants to make the rich pay half and the poor pay nothing. That's communism.

- No it's not, said Ruth.

- ANyway, you guys'll get soaked, Bob said. And as for me, hell, I'm giving them too much already.

- It could be worse, Joe repeated.

- It will be, said Bib, the way that Harper's going at it. Next thing you know there'll be communist medicine and all of that. Before you know it, we'll all be working for the government. Tshit!

- Bob! Joan scolded.

- Well, it's true, said Bob.

- Let me help you, Patty said, as Christine started gathering things to take inside. Ruth got up too and healped to clear the table.

- That was delicious, Harry said.

- Thank you, said Christine. We really went through it, too. That was a lot of chicken. Two ovenfulls! Or is that two ovens full?

Everybody laughed. Inside, the kids were inspecting the unused bedrooms. They were both clean and neat and the beds were made, even though no one ever slept in them.

- I wish we had a house like this, Mark said.

- Me too, said Ricky.

- They must have a lot of money.

- Yeah, a lot.

- When I grow up, I'm going to have a lot of money, Mark said.

- Me too.

- Yeah.

Chapter eight

At one thirty, the men disappeared into the den to watch the Jammers game. There was a well-stocked liquor cabinet in there, as well as a small refrigerator loaded with cold beers. Unless they got hungry again after that big meal, there'd be no reason th leave the room except to go to the bathroom. The women were consigned to the kitchen, to clean up. They didn't really mind, since there wasn't very much to clean: the paper plates just got thrown away, and the glasses could go in the dishwasher. They would never understand the attraction of baseball on TV. Very year all of the would go out to the park to see a game or two, and that was fun, you were there, it was real.

- It's like they're hypnotized, Joan complained.

She was always the one most bothered by these mass desertions.

- Men will be boys, Patty said.

- I wonder why they can't just sit around and talk, Joan said. With men there always has to be someting else going on, something to distract them from themselves and from each other.

- And they can't stand silence, Christine added.

- Oh, they talk sometimes, Ruth said. WHen they get together for poker, they just sit around and talk.

- Sure, Joan said, but they can always turn it off and just talk about the cards. You can't have a real conversation like that. I don't know. It's just different with them.

Christine dumped the chicken pans in the sink and declared that she'd wash them later. She suggested that they take some folding chairs and sit by the pool. After all, it was such a nice day, and who wants to be stuck inside? There was something she wanted to tell them, and she was just waiting until the men were safely out of the way. As she put it this way, the women became very eager to hear this news, but Christine would say no more until they were all relaxing by the pool. Even then she began slowly.

- It's not what you think, she said.

- Come on, Joan said, tell us.

- Well, she said. Do you remember Grace Perkins?

- Who doesn't, Ruth declared. That woman was after Grant in the most obvious ways back at State. She used to follow him everywhere like a puppy dog. I always wondered what became of her.

- You saw her? Patty asked.

- No, Christine said, I didn't see her. But I did run into Carol Jinks,, who used to be her best friend, and she told me about her.

- And? Joan said, looking after Jill who was running after Basic. Joan's eyes never left that little girl, but that didn't mean she couldn't carry on a conversation at the same time. Part of the art of motherhood, she used to say, is learning how to do fourteen things at once.

- She got married, Christine said.

- Poor thing, Ruth joked. Is that all?

- No, that's not all, Christine said. I'm telling you. Listen. She got married about five years ago to a very handsome, very rich man - a lawyer - and they moved to Maryland. She had two kids, both boys, and they all lived in a very nice house near Frederick. Somewhere in the countryside near there. Anyway, everything was going just fine - Carol used to go and visit her and she said that Grace was terribly happy and everything. And then one day last year this man came home one day and just told her to get her things and get out.

- Just like that? Joan was alarmed.

- Uh huh. Christine said. He just evicted her! And not only that, he made sure he kept the kids.

- And she just left? Ruth said. She just up and left because he said so?

- Well, she was scared, Christine said. He was really angry - and she had no idea what about - and he scared her. And she thought maybe it would be best to get out of the way until he calmed down, so she went and stayed with Carol for a few days, only he never did want her back. She returned a week later and found another woman had already moved in.

- My God, that's horrible, Joan said.

- Oh my, said Ruth. I feel so awful. All those nasty things I used to say about her.

- How could he do that? Patty asked. I don't see how anyone could just go and do something like that and get away with it.

- Well, he did, said Christine. The poor thing. Her heart's all broken and everything. She's gone back to her parents' in Newport News.

- That's the worst thing I ever heard, said Joan. Can you imagine it? Jill! Stop teasing doggy like that! You mustn't get him too excited.

Jill had been trying to climb on Basic's back, while he kept trying to turn his head around and lick her face. As a result, the girl kept falling on the lawn, only to get right back up and try again. She stopped when Joan called out to her, but by then Basic was already starting to jump, and he was a good deal bigger than the baby.

- Basic! Come here! Ruth commanded, and both the dog and girl trotted over to their respective mothers.

- What kind of man could be so cruel, Joan said. I mean, it's one thing when a marriage goes down the tubes - that happens all the time. But to end it so abruptly, out of the blue like that. She must've been so stunned!

- They're divorced already, Christine said. She tried to get custody but the court left them with their father.

- I hope she's getting a lot of money at least, said Ruth.

- Oh yeah, Christine said. She has no worries on that account. She's getting quite a lot, really.

- I just can't see it, Patty said.

The story intrigued her, that someone's life could be turned so upside down, just like that, in one brief moment, no longer than it takes to say goodbye. How would it feel? How the hell do you think it feels?

- Bob would never do that, Joan said. I know that for sure. I guess I'm lucky. We're all lucky, when you think about it. They say that three of every four marriages end in divorce nowadays, and here we are, all four of us still married.

- Grant wouldn't do it either, said Christine. He might screw around on the side, I can see him doing that, but he'd never throw me out like trash.

- And to kick her out of the house, Ruth said. The nerve! The least he could do is let her have the house!

- And the kids, said Joan. That's the worst thing about it. She's probably well rid of him, but to take a mother's children away from her! That judge should be ashamed of himself!

Ruth suddenly started laughing, and was still laughing as she explained,

- I was just picturing Harry trying to pull a stunt like that.

The idea was ludicrous. Patty laughed too, imagining a pale and trembling Harry, stuttering his deman that Ruth clear out - g-g-g-g-get l-l-l-l-ost, p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-lease?

- It's not funny, Joan said. The rest of you have careers, I know, but my husband and my kids are my whole life. I think I'd be destroyed if that happened to me. I don't think I'd ever be able to get over it.

- You don't have anything to worry about, said Christine. Bob would be lost without you. You and the kids are everything to him too. If there ever was a fmaily man, it's Bob ...

- I know, Joan said. It's just that I can't even bear to think about, you know, what if something should happen and he wouldn't be around anymore.

- Men are so helpless, Patty said. If I wasn't around, Joe wouldn't even be able to feed himself. I swear they're such incredibly dependent creatures.

- So are women, Christine said. I think the differences between us are overrated. We all need somebody.

- That's what it's all about, Joan said. You've got to have somebody, a family, friends. Otherwise, what is life? I don't know if it would even be worth living.

- A lot of people do it, Ruth said. They manage to get along. It's not easy, but in some way it's probably easier. All you have to do is take care of yourself. You never have to worry about what someone else might need or want.

- It must be so lonely, Joan said. I'd hate it if I was all alone.

- You don't have to be, said Christine.

- Thank God, said Joan.

Jill climbed into her lap and promptly fell asleep. Joan stroked her hair gently, and kissed the top of her head.

- She's turning into a real beauty, Christine said.

Ricky and Mark came running out of the house, wearing their swimming trunks. They jumped in the pool without asking if they could, but no one told them to stop.

- Race you! Mark yelled.

Of course, Patty let her boy do almost anything he wanted to. She had always been like that, unlike Joan, who Òknew betterÓ. Patty had always resented interference and so gave her son the consideration she felt she never received. Whether he was better or worse for it was beside the point. There was no way you could tell. Mark was what he was and had to be. He already had a huge lead on Ricky as they splashed across the pool. At one point, Mark even stopped and gave his friend a chance to catch up, but then he won anyway. WInning was very important to him.

- I wonder, Ruth said as she scratched Basic behind his ears.

- What? Patty asked.

- Why did the guy keep the kids? Most men aren't into children that much.

- They were boys, Christine said. That says it all.

Patty realized she was right. If they were girls, he would have let them go. No, if they were girls, he would have moved out and left the house to the females. But boys grow up to be what their fathers weren't, and they play football and watchit on TV.

- You know what? she said. I just remembered. It's almost football season.

- It's all one endless season, Christine said.

Once again Patty was forced to remind herself that not Christine was not only blonde, beautiful and rich, but she had a brain as well, and a functioning one at that.

- Almost, Patty said. Except that Mark likes football. Now he'll spend every sunday at the tube with his father.

- I'll bet Joe likes that, Joan said.

She still didn't know Joe very well, even after all these years. She imagined that he was somehow different at home with his famikly than he was with company - livelier, perhaps, warmer, more involved, like her own doting husband.

- I suppose so, Patty said politely ( when he notices, she said to herself).

More and more her husband seemed to be somewhere else. His mind had been drifting all these years, not willfully, no, just floating out with the tide, removing him ever further from the immediate vicinity inhabited by his body. His tendency to become lost in the invisible world of the airwaves had become steadily more pronounced. He was beginning to become almost absent-minded at times. He'd been able to handle it before. Now there were times when he didn't seem to hear what she said to him, or feel her touching him even. And he wasn't able to snap back to reality as quickly as he used to. Now there was a blank look in his eyes while he switched the channels of his attention.

- Mom, look at me! Mark yelled.

It was a moment before she realized it was the third time he'd yelled it.

- What is it? she asked.

- Watch me dive! he said.

And she watched him dive. When he surfaced, she said,

- Very good, dear.

They say that women always talk about the men they have, while men always talk about the women they had. Grant was one of these men. Women on commercials always seemed to remind him of former girlfriends, whose number was endless. Before Christine, he'd say, there had been so manhy that he'd lost count, but if he'd been unfaithful since his marriage ( three years ago ) he didn;t tell his friends about it - that could be dangerous. Bob for one was sure to tell his wife, as he'd already told her about the exes, and Harry had no secrets from Ruth. Joe, on ythe other hand, might or might not tell Patty, but not out of loyalty. It would be accidental either way so Grant did not confide in him either.

Joe had always been a fantastic listener. You could tell him all your problems and he wouldn't try to force any ignorant advice on you. You could convery your doubts to him, your preoccupations, and he'd absorb them like a sponge. He never made anyone feel embarrassed to be talking to him. He'd been Grant's confidant for many years, since they were roommates at State, and actually knew most of the former girlfriends. But since Grant got married, things had changed between them. There was more distance now, more cautious hesitation. This was entirely on Grant's side. Joe was still the same. Joe hadn't even noticed the change. Grant didn't point it out.

- Doesn't she look like Kathy Wells? Grant asked him.

The girl was skateboarding on some boardwalk, radio implanted in her ear, other things implanted elsewhere, holding a diet something or other in her hand.

- Yeah, a little, Joe said.

He wasn't sure if he remembered Kathy Wells.

- You know, Grant said. That could even be her. She was going to be an actress.

- Commercials aren't acting, Bob said.

He belched. Harry cracked a smile.

- Sure they are, Grant said. How can you say that?

- Twenty seconds isn't an act, Bob said. It's just time enough to show off her boobs and her teeth. It ain't acting. It's just showing off.

- You know, Grant said. You're really full of it. Isn't he, Joe?

- What? Joe asked.

He'd been studying the next commercial, about a shrinking suitcase. You could take it anywhere.

-Never mind, said Grant. It doesn't matter anyway.

- Will you listen to that? Bob said. I swear they don't even make sense anymore. Did you hear that commercial?

- Why? What? Joe said.

- It was for that new car, the seven el. The guy saus that it's Òaerodynamically smoothÓ - what the hell does that mean? Then he says you get more for your value! My value?

- Money, Grant said. He means money.

- Then why the hell doesn't he just say it?

- So it'll be different.

- Geez, Harry ventured. Everything's got to be different all the time. What's the big deal about different? It's not like they're fooling anyone. I mean, a car is a car, right? And of course they're going to say it's the best car ever. And what's so good about it? It's different, they say. Heck, everything is always different.

- I'm with you, Joe said.

Harry beamed.

- But what else can they do? Grant asked. You can't go on TV and say buy this car, it's pretty much the same as all the others. That would be stupid.

- It's stupid to pretend it's not, Bob said.

- But it is different, Grant said. Take this seven el thing. It's got a new kind of binary engine, and more effective all wheel drive design, and it runs even better on the cheaper gasoline.

- Still it's just a car, Bob said. You get in it and you drive somewhere.

- You're impossible, said Grant. I'd like to know, where'd you ever get that contrary little mind? I'll bet your parents argued all the time.

- Actually they never argued, Bob said. I had to do it for them.

- I just wish you'd give it a rest for a change, said GRant. That would be a change for the better, a really good kind of different.

- Sorry, old boy, said Bob. Not this time.

There were an awful lot of commercials, but finally the stadium returned to the screen, just in time for the singing of the national anthem.

- Damn! Bob said. I wish they'd ban that tune! I'm so sick of it.

- It is a lousy song, Grant agreed.

In spite of their incessant quibbling, these two men understood each other thoroughly. They both had goals, had dreams. They were working towards something. The future, for them, was brighter than the present. This was not an attitude shared by Harry or Joe, for whom the present was the best thing yet, and who lacked nothing in their lives, and had no reason to complain. Neither Bob nor Grant could understand them, yet it was not an outlook that the other two had arrived at after much active consideration. It was a built-in predisposition, often mistaken for complacency. or lack of ambition.

- Oh no! Bob exclaimed. Not Rita Mayfair! She sucks!

- At least it isn't Robby Gulch, said Grant.

Yet, for Grant, things could always be worse, and for Bob, things could aways be better. Harry and Joe felt they were unqualified to judge at all. At most, they would venture an opinion.

- And we're just about to get underway here at Lakefront Stadium, and it looks like we're in for a pretty good game today. Tha Jammers are coming in on a five game winning streak - in fact, they've won eight of their last nine and fourteen of their last seventeen. Fremont is also on a roll, after sweeping Santa Fe in three games, two of which were shutouts.

The announcer's voice droned on and on. Bob complained about him, as he always did, but listened as intently as the others. For a few minutes that voice was the only sound in the room. Joe was memorizing the lineups, so that throughout the game he'd always know who was coming up when. It was a good thing to know. He'd be able to tell the others in advance and have a jump on them, but only in order to be of service. He also kept a running scorecard going in his mind throughout the game, so he could say who did what his first or second or third time up, even what pitches had been thrown to him. All information was valuable. There was none that couldn't theoretically be of use. That's why it was so important to pay attention.

That's why Joe wasn't listening to Bob's complaints about the illiterate announcer who alwyas made nouns of verbs and vice versa. Instead, he was hearing, and remembering, Ò Bob Uston will be at third today for the Blues, and batting in the clean up position. Batting fifth, and playing center field, is Jerry OttÓ. The same information was being displayed on the screen, and Joe noted the numbers that the players would be wearing on their uniforms. That way he could tell who they were just by seeing their number, and he could say, ÒHmm, number twelve, that's Jerry OttÓ, and then add all sorts of other items about the particular player. Other people could always benefit from something he knew, a fact which made him sort-of proud. Back in high school, a guidance counselor had told him he'd do best as some kind of answer man, an infoman, the counselor said. However, he'd always been afraid of being asked too many questions who's answers he didn't know, which was why he'd never pursued any career of that kind. Other people could probably do a better job than him. At least he thought so. Like the radio talk show hosts on K.A.S.K. He could never do that! What if he made a fool of himself?

- John Richard's on the mound for the Blues, he observed. Last time he faced the Jammers, we beat him nine to two. He was knocked out in the sixth when Ellis hit a three run homer.

- I remember that game, Harry said.

- But we've got Ronson on the mound, Bob said. They beat us last time he pitched against them.

- Somebody's got to win, Grant said. Guess we'll just have to wait and see.

After swimming for awhile, Mark and Ricky got bored. When they were in the midst of a splash fight, Basic had leapt into the pool and soaked all the women with his belly flop. The boys had to get out in order to get the dog out too, and by that time they were inthe mood for something else. They dried off and tried to think of a game to play.

- Wanna play catch? Ricky asked.

Mark didn't wanna. And he didn't wanna throw around the frisbee either. Ricky suggested they go sit in his dad's car and play at stock car racing, but Mark didn't feel like it.

- You suggest something, Ricky at last demanded.

- Oh I dunno, Mark thought. How about cowboys and indians?

- OKay, Ricky said.

- I get to be the Indian, Mark said. You're the cowboy.

- Good, I like to be the cowboy, Ricky said.

They pretended to put on imaginary outfits, Ricky tightening a holster belt around his waist, and Mark sticking a hunting knife in his poocket.

- Okay, here's what we're gonna do, he said. I'm just living peacefully with my tribe. It's sundown and we're just about done with picking the harvest. The women are cooking dinner, and the men are coming in fromthe fields. All at once you come riding in with a bunchof other cowboys and you're all screaming and whooping and shooting your guns in the air. You ride into the village and start firing at the people, who are all running away. That's when I come in.

- I don't know, Ricky said. That doesn't seem right.

- Just do it, Mark commanded.

- Okay.

Mark retreated to the far corner of the yard, and then he started to move forward slowly, stooped over as if he was carrying a sack of grain on his shoulder. Ricky charged from the other direction, screaming and whooping and pretending to shoot his gun in the air.

- What on earth are they up to? Christine asked.

- I don't know, Joan said. It could be - no, I don't have the faintest idea.

Ricky continued to charge, only now he was aiming his gun lower, and running around in circles. And then Mark ran up, shouting Òstop, stopÓ, and he pretended to leap up and knock Ricky off his horse. They both fell down and started to wrestle.

- You goddamn savage! Ricky said.

He was trying to get up, but Mark had him pinned down pretty good.

- What's wrong with you? Mark was yelling. How can you come around killing innocent women and children? What kind of people are you?

- Oh my God, Patty said. It's cowboys and indians.

- Oh, and Mark's the cowboy? asked Chrstine.

- No, he's the Indian, Patty said.

- I don't get it, Christine said. I thought the cowboys always won.

- Not in the Gospel According to Mark, Ruth laughed.

- He's still changing history? Joan asked. I thought that was going away.

- That's what I thought, Patty said. But I guess I was wrong.

- There's nothing wrong with it, Ruth said. I just read an article that said it might even be better to act out certain fantasies than to keep them inside.

- Better to murder an infant in its crib, said Christine.

- What? Joan was alarmed. Did you say something about killing an infant?

- William Blake, Christine explained. ÔTis better to murder an infant in its crib than to nurse an unacted desire'.

- I don't think I agree with that, Joan said. Some desires are better left unacted.

- Probably, said Christine.

- No question about it, said Joan. Imagine if everyone just went ahead and did whatever they wanted to.

- Don't they anyway? Ruth asked.

Patty and Christine nodded. But Ruth, in order to pacify Joan, who hated to appear dumber than the others - which she was, in fact - added,

- But that doesn;t make it right. There have to be some rules, after all.

- That's what I meant, said Joan.

Mark killed Ricky pretty quickly, slitting his throat, and the game was over.

- I didn't like that game, Ricky said.

- So what do you wanna do now? asked Mark.

He had enjoyed it.

Harry fetched another beer for everyone. In the bottom of the fifth, the score was tied at two apiece. Bob had noticed, one more time, a peculiar usage of a word by the announcer.

- Notice how he always says Ôcustomer'? Sometimes the pitcher is a cool customer, or the batter is a tough customer, or even a rough customer. Where do you think that came from?

- Retail, Grant said, and was the only one to laugh at his little joke.

- I swear, Bob said, ignoring the comment. This guy is weird.

- I think it's a postwar expression, said Harry.

- Which war? asked Bob.

- One or Two, Harry said.

- Wonder what great words we'll get after the next one, Bob replied.

- If we're around to talk at all, said Harry.

- That's what they always say, said Bob. And here we are.

- Three wasn't really a war, Joe said.

He hated that popular term for the last world crisis. It wasn't appropriate, and the appropriateness of a name was important to him. Things are understood by their names, and that was a crisis, not a war, and certainly not World War Three.

- Close enough for me, said Grant.

Harry and Bob nodded in agreement.

- It was just a crisis, said Joe. Not a war.

Chapter nine

Eventually the Jammers lost, and it was time to go home, and not a moment too son, because Mark and Ricky had gotten tired of playing and were becoming more irritable by the minute. They had a verbal fight, broken up by their mothers, and sat glowering at each other. The women were also getting sleepy; too much sun and sitting around. Their conversation had pretty much died out. Even Basic had fallen asleep by the time the men ambled out the back door, downcast and bitter about the loss. Bob didn't even have the energy to blame anyone. The party was over. Sensing this, Christine rose and put on a cheery expression, declaring that the afternoon had been so nice. It was not a hint. Everyone was ready to leave.

- I'd better drive, Joan said to Bob.

- Me, too, said Patty to her husband, and the men didn't argue.

- Looks like we lost, eh? said Christine.

- Uh huh, her husband murmered.

- Oh well, there'll be other games, she declared, knowing it was stupid thing to say.

- I am not, Ricky sulked.

- Y'are too, said Mark.

- Enough! Patty yelled at them. Now you two shake hands and said goodbye.

- I swear, she said to Ruth, these kids go through the same routine every time. They meet like long lost brothers and part like ancient enemies.

- Bye, Ricky said, going over and standing next to his dad.

- Goodbye, Mark said emphatically.

- Thanks again Christine, Ruth said. We had a wonderful time.

- I'm so glad you came, Christine replied.

Farewells were exchanged all around, and the hosts followed their guests to their cars, and stood and waved as they pulled away. Jill had started crying, but Joan knew she'd fall asleep as soon as they got moving. Basic hopped in the back of the wagon and sprawled out, taking up so much space that Mark had to sit with Harry and Ruth in the back seat. He wasn't talking.

- You shouldn't drink so muc, Ruth told her husband. You get sick.

- Wasn't so muc, said Harry. Only a few beers. Right, Joe?

- You had five, Joe reported. I had seven.

- A whole case between you, Ruth said. Now don't you think that's too much?

- On top of two martinis before lunch, Patty added.

- We're okay, said Joe.

- Sure, Ruth said. And Harry will fall asleep on the couch as soon as we get home.

Patty drove her car carefully through the winding streets, and cautiously entered the highway. She didn't like to drive on it; everyone was crazy. They didn't watch what they were doing. They let the little doodads hanging from their mirrors do all the thinking for them. Patty stayed in the right lane and drove slowly. She wasn't in any hurry. Were any of those other people, who zipped by at seventy and eighty, reall yin a hurry? Or did they drive so fast merely to compensate for their turtle-paced brains? And it didn't take all that long to get home. First she dropped off Harry and Ruth at their house - a big, friendly looking place shaded by an enormous oak out front - and waited as they had to coax and finally drag the dog out of the back. Basic could be awfully stubborn at times.

A few minutes later she pulled into herown driveway and parked the car. The three of them got out and without a word went inside. They had no energy. Mark moped in the kitchen, sitting down by the table, and whined about being hungry.

- We'll have a little supper in a while, Patty told him. Just take it easy, okay? I'm tired too, you know.

- What's for dinner? Joe asked, coming in behind them.

- Christ! Patty said.

- We're having Christ for dinner? Mark said, and snorted.

Patty just sighed, and said,

- You two. Just go away, will you? I'll call you when supper's ready.

Mark got up and trudged up the stairs, and then flung himself on his bed and promptly fell asleep. Joe dozed off in his chair in the living room. They're always demanding something, Patty said to herself. What am I? The maid? What do they ever do for me? She sat down in the kitchen and lit a cigarette. She was feeling slightly guilty, about her feelings. She had such a hard time putting up with Joan, trying not to say the wrong thing, not to ruffle her feathers, pretending to be interested in the tips dispensed by the mother of all mothers, when she knew very well she would never have another child and go through all that crap again. And Christine, a woman she could almost, but not quite, bring herself to respect. It was the way she adored Grant, doted on him, and it diminished her. Only Ruth among them was a person in her own right, autonomous and independent, but even Ruth had a sidekick in her act. I could live very well without any of this shit, PAtty thought, as she took another drag on her Salem.

Most of all she was annoyed with herself, for being such a hypocrite. She masked her real feelings almost automatically. She managed to be nice to everyone, while wanting to be nice to no one. What a strange thing, having these Ôfriends', and how tiresome it is to pick it all apart over and over again. Friends are people you've grown accustomed to, she thought, and you can get used to anybody. And really, Joan was such a dear, and Christine was really very special, and Ruth, there was no one like her anywhere.

She decided to make scrambled eggs and home fries for dinner, along with some desparately needed coffee, so she set about making it all, no longer thinking any petty picky thoughts about her friends. Like anything, they were wonderful in moderation. It's just that on days like this you overdo it. It didn't take long to make supper, and both Mark and Joe, woken by her yelling, came into the kitchen still looking wasted and sleepy. They plopped down in their sears and began to eat mechanically. Joe almost managed to smile a thanks, but didn't wuite make it. Mark didn't even try. They ate in total silence.

It was almost seven when they finished, time, Joe remembered, to watch the Hour Magazine on channel eight. They all watched this show together every sunday evening. It really was one of the most interesting shows on TV. Patty left the dishes for later, and joined the boys in the living room.

- I hope it's not a rerun, Patty said.

- Probly is, said Mark. They don't start the new shows till September.

- Maybe it's one we didn't see, Joe said, but that was unlikely, since they'd seen almost every one. And from the start it was apparent that they'd seen this one before.

- Welcome to Hour Magazine, a woman said. I'm Claire Bonnable. Tonight I'll be examinning a problem that affects many americans - abandoned children. Every year some forty thousand infants are abandoned by their parents. Tonight, we'll see what happens when those parents have a change of heart, and try to reclaim their children.

- I'm Roger Willis, a man said. Tonight I'll be taking a look at an amazing new drug, one whose promise is extraordinary, but whose side effects may be even more amazing.

- She's a wife, a mother, a talented actress, and a corporate executive. I'm Bill Glass. Join me a little later on for an in depth interview with Miss Sadie Hemp. All this and more, tonight on Hour Magazine.

- At least it was a good on,e Joe said as a lemon soap commercial came on.

- Yeah, Patty agreed. It was.

- I don't wanna watch it, Mark said, but he didn't budge from his seat.

The Baker family sat back and absorbed the radiation from the set. They were too tired to move, too lazy to think of anything else to do. So it's a rerun, Patty thought. At least it's an interesting one. After the lemon soap commercial there was an overnight package delivery commercial, followed by a savings and loan commercial. Eventually the shw returned, displaying Claire Bonnable in a neat white skirt suit standing in front of the St. William's orphanage in Roanoke.

- Most abandoned children, she said, end up in a place like this one. Right now there are more than three hundred such children here at St. William's. Now, St. William's is not your typical orphanage, but it exclusively for children who have been abandoned. The parents of these kids are not dead. They just don't want them anymore. What makes a parent give up her child? We asked Revered James Steel, the administrator here at St. William's.

- There are a variety of reasons, the Reverend said. First of all, there are economic factors. The parents simply cannot afford to care for the child. And then, in some instances, the mother is too young to cope with the child. Of course, in other cases, the child is simply unwanted.

- Do these parents every change theyr minds, and try to reclaim the babies they've given away?

- Naturally, it does happen from time to time, although it's not very common. Sometimes it's years later that the parents regret their action, and they come here seeking the rejected child. It is, of course, not always easy to trace the child for them after such a long time.

- And the child, Claire said into the camera now, may not want to be reclaimed by parents who have abandoned him. With us now is Billy Gring. Billy is fourteen years old. Is that right, Billy?

- Yeah.

- And you were left here on the doorstep of St. William's when you were sixmonths old?

- That's what they tell me. I don't really remember. I was only a baby at the time.

- Right. And just last yeat, you received a visit from two people who claimed to be your natural parents?

- Yeah.

- And how did you feel about that?

- How the ---- would you feel? I mean, I don't know these people, right? And they come out of nowhere, say they want to take me home with them, okay? Why should I go with them? They ain't nobody to me, you see? I mean, they left me here on the ------ doorstep thirteen years before and now they come around/ What the -----do they expect?

- Thank you, Billy.

Again Claire turned to face the camera. There was a solemn expression on her face as she said,

- And so we see that rejection breeds only more rejection. PArents who abandon their children can only expect to be abandoned in return.

It seemed to Patty that this was truly a non-story. Nothing but belaboring the obvious. That's one of the problems with reruns, she thought. It lets you see how shallow the show was in the first place, and makes you feel doubly stupid - for being interested the first time, and still sitting through it here again. Patty was feeling that the entire day had been a rerun. She'd lived it all before, and how empty it was seeming to her now; the friendly act, the trivial conversation, the men and their idiot games, Mark and Ricky and their endless rituals, and now, even a TV shyow she'd seen before. On TV it was word for word, image for image, exactly the same. At least in life there were enough slight variations to make it seem actually different. Otherwise you'd go crazy for sure. But wasn't it crazy sitting here so passively, waiting patiently for the next story which she'd already seen before? She didn't want to think about that. ÔCrazy' was one of those dangerous words that were easy to use and didn't mean anything anymore, like Ôvalues' or Ôintegrity'. It was okay to be sitting there because she was tired and her brain needed a rest. At least that was the alibi she used, and if she thought about it anymore, she was going to kick herself.

- Anemephylexanine, Roger Wills stated. That might not mean anything to you, but it's the name of a new drug, invented here at the Johns Hopkins Medical Center, that is said to be effective in the prevention of suicide. The drug is still in the experimental stage, but is already showing signs of that old familiar condition, where the cure is possibly worse than the disease. We have with us Dr. Herbert Plank. Dr. Plank? First, perhaps you can tell us a little about this drug. How does it prevent suicide?

- Well, Roger. I have to say, first of all, that we can as yet make no definitive pronouncements as to the veriability of anemephylexanine. However, we can say, with reasonable certainty, that suicidal thoughts and impulses seem to be connected to the presence and amount of a certain chemical in the brain. Anemephylexanine helps reduce the levels of that chemical, and so, in theory at least, would seem to be intrumental in the alleviation of suicidal tendencies.

- But the drug has certain side effects, does it not?

- At this stage in the experimentation, we have indeed come up against an unforeseen complication. Again, our understanding of the process is far from complete. Our research, however, seems to indicate that an excessib\vely low level of this particular chemical in the brain tends to induce a certain state of euphoria which, taken to extremes, can be equally harmful.

- In other words, subjects on whom you've tested the drug have shown mood swings ranging from deep depression to a kind of ecstasy?

- Yes, the doctor said. In fact, many have been prone to fits of incessant gigling, leading to complications of the nervous system.

- And it is feasible, is it not, that these patients may in fact be in danger of literally laughing themselves to death?

- It is not out of the question, the doctor responded. As in all things, a certain balance must be found and maintained.

It's not so funny the second time around, Patty thought. When she'd first seen this program, it had seemed hilarious; now it only made sense. But it was sad, in a way, that these doctors eemed to be closing in on the secret of happiness and that it was no more than a matter of amounts of chemicals. Soon everyone could go to the hospital, get their chemicals adjusted, and come out happy. Soon all extremes of emotion could be medically eliminated. The brave new world was not at all far-fetched. In fact, it was only logical. How paltry, Patty thought, is my unease, my dis-ease. How easy it would be to abolish it. We think we're so complex - ha! like laboratory rats! X stimulus produces Y reaction. Subjectivity is error.

More commercials paraded across the screen, and Mark was fast asleep. Joe had thought to comment on that last story, but that was the trouble with reruns. They made you think the same thoughts you thought before, and say the same words you said before. He remembered they'd already discussed it last time. No sense in repeating the conversation all over again. His thoughts about it were exactly the same, and he assumed that hers were too. Actually, X stimulus had provoked Z reaction in her this time, but she didn't feel like talking about it. They sat there, not looking at each other, eyes glazed over, fixed on the screen, waiting for the next old thing.

Patty couldn't handle this one at all. It had been hard enough the first time around, but it was out of the question now. The last thing she wanted to hear about was the exciting life of a total woman like Miss Sadie Hemp. Sadie Hemp, so fucking beautiful. Sadie Hemp, so fucking smart. Sadie Hemp, so fucking talented and powerful and confident and rich and every bit the woman of the century. She talked, and everybody listened. She smiled, and everybody grinned. Fuck her! I don't want to hear this shit! Sadie Hemp must die!

She couldn't sit through it, so he got up and went into the kitchen to do the dishes, but first she had another cigarette. Sadie Hemp didn't smoke. Patty Baker did, and was glad to be imperfect. She thought bad things about other people. She was a very critical person. If she didn't like someone, well, then she didn't like them. And here I am being insanely jealous of Sadie Hemp, just like a schoolgirl. How ridiculous!

The dishes kept her occupied for a littlle while, and then she had another cup of coffee, another cigarette, and felt much better. Obviously the levels of that chemical in her brain had decreased somewhat. All I want is a balance, she thought. Just keep me on an even keel, that's all I really want. She wasn't one of those people who were always trying to improve themselves. It was hard enough just to be yourself. The problem was that there was so much judging going on, so much comparing, and it's so easy to get sucked up in those games. She was always comparing her life against what it could be, or what it might have been if only things were somehow different. She didn't really have anything specific in mind. There was that job offer - she might take it - but she wanted everything to change. A whole new life.

Hell, she thought, why am I rambling on like this. You know how it goes. I'll turn it over and over again in my mind and end up getting nowhere. The fact is that when I have nothing to think about, I think like this. I shouldn't pay any attention to it. It doesn't mean anything. My lifeis what I've made it, and if I invalidate it up to now, well, I automatically invalidate the future too, right? Because I'm going to be the same person. So to hell with all these stupid thoughts. Just turn it off, Pat. You're just going around in circles in there. Let's see what's on the tube tonight, okay?

Joe looked perfectly peaceful as she came back into the living room. His eyes were only half open, and his feet were propped up on the footstool. His arms were folded across his chest, and he looked up at her and said,

- Hi honey. How are you feeling?

- Okay, she said. You look pretty happy sitting there.

- Guess it's pretty comfortable, he smiled.

- I can see that, she said.

She leaned over and kissed him. He reached up and gently stroked her face.

- Did you have a good time today? he asked.

- Yes, it was very pleasant, she said.

- They're all such good people, he said.

- I know, she replied. We're lucky to have them.

- Mmm, he said, kissing her again. I don't care what they say. Everything is exactly like it should be.

- Is it? she asked. I guess it is.

And she thought, it must be so, or else everything wouldn't be like it is. She sat down in her chair and wondered about that. If you can accept everything as it is, every person, every situation, then you would never have, as Joe always says, a reason to complain. My problems are all in my head, just the effects of having too much time on my hands. I really should take that job, she decided, and almost said so out loud. But she was saving that. He didn't even know about the offer yet. If she took it, then she'd tell him all about it. I don't need the money, she thought, but I need it for my sanity. I've been too lazy to long, and it's been a long time since there was any reason for me to stay at home.

- Is there anything on tonight? she asked.

- There's a movie coming on next, he said. It looks pretty good, and I don't think we've seen it before.

- What's it called?

- ÔMax', he told her. It's called ÔMax'. It's all about this guys and how his world falls apart and he has to pick up all the pieces and start over again.

- How many stars?

- Three stars, he said. It's got Brad Gewehr and Florence Shinn and, let's see (he consulted the listing), it was made last year.

- Oh, I remember it now, Patty said. It didn't stay in the theatres very long.

- There were too many good movies last year, Joe said. I guess it just got drowned out.

- I guess so, Patty said. Well, I think Bob and Joan said it was good.

- That's right, said Joe. I'd forgotten they saw it. Bob mentioned it this afternoon. Said it was worthwhile.

Patty couldn't decide whether or not it was, but they sat through it anyway. It was pretty typical, conventional, if the truth be known. In the beginning, Max was your basic asshole. He had a foul mouth and a bad attitude about his job in some big office building downtown. He thought too highly of himself and was forever bragging about how valuable he was to the company and how they couldn't make it without him. He bragged about what a great lay he was, and how he was so smart he could cheat on his wife every day and she'd never find out, and you had to hate the guy. But you could tell it was all a lie and inside he was hollow and scared to death of everything and he was just putting on this show like real men are supposed to.

And then, predictably, everything begins to unravel. First he lost his job - out of the blue, just like that, for no good reason, except that his old boss got replaced and his new boss hated his guts. There was a scene about the importance of teamwork, and how Max just didn't fit in with the Ônew way' things were going to be done around there. Well, he thought, no sweat - a thousand other companies would give their left eye for a guy like me, only they wouldn't. They didn't give a goddamn, in fact. Nobody wanted him; he was too slick, obviously a phony, and he was the only one who couldn't see the truth about himself. Things continued to unravel.

His wife found out he'd been cheating on her, so she left him and took their son. Damn, that hurt! He took to drinking too much. In no time flat he was broke, a bum, thoroughly destitute with no prospects whatsoever. He was sleeping in the streets and begging for nickels during the day. HIs clothes smelled not at all lemon fresh, and he kept forgetting to shave. Talk about down and out - in the flesh. Things looked pretty bleak by this time, about halfway through the movie, and it was time for some miraculous transformation of the ordinary kind. A guardian angel was due, spreading around a bit of saving grace. This was, as any moveigoer knows, inevitable; just like in real life! The old riches to rags to riches routine, only in america.

Naturally enough, the guardian angel came in the shape of an adorable little girl, who offered him a lollypop ( here, suck that! Patty imagined her saying). All of a sudden, Max became ashamed of himself. In a long, poignant scene he searched his mediocre actor's face in the mirror, making every single one of the appropriate expressions. He resolved to change. He'd be a new man. And the rest of the movie was devoted to this project. He shaved, got a job washing dishes in a sleezy all night strip joint, saved up enough money to buy a new set of clothes, and eventually landed himself a modest job as a data entry specialist in a secretarial pool, where he made friends, was decent and honest , and learned how to adjust to the real world. He scaled down his formerly lofty ambitions, found a sweet, if stupid, girlfriend, and courted her like a gentleman. Max, the hero. A wretch who became a slob who became a polite, mild-mannered nobody.

- This is the new Superman? Patty thought.

Joe thought it was a pretty good movie.

- It's just so typical, Patty said. As if everybody saves themselves. Most of us don't get saved at all.

- I think it just say that there's always hope, Joe said. Even for the hopeless.

That's because you have such a literal little mind, Patty thought. It never ceased to amaze her that her husband always managed to pick up exactly the message they wanted you to get. He never saw the large picture around anything, never picked up any of the subtler propaganda. To Patty the movie said, we don't want any heroes, just leave the important things to us, you just go on and be happy with your mediocre, powerless lives. You don't have a chance, so don't even try. You'll be so much better off, we promise. But Joe would accuse her of reading too much into it.

- It's only a story about a guy, he'd say.

He refused to believe that there could be any more to it. It was just a story, that's all. No use in trying to argue with him. He'll never understand. It's true that culture shapes mythology but it works the other way around as well. Lately there were a lot of these messages being broadcast - you cannot change the world, the world cannot change you. You are not a part of it, it is not as part of you. You go your own way, let everyone else go theirs. Not only is society too big to pay attention to the individual, it's also too big for the individual to affect it in any way. Leave it to the professionals, to the corporations, to the banks, the ones creating this mythology. All the individual has to do is fit in, somehow, find a nice little niche and live his little life in peace. Then they'll let him be. Maybe she was reading too much into it. On the other hand, there was a column in it.

It was only ten o'clock, but they were both pretty tired. Mark had already gone to bed at nine, having been totally bored by the film. Patty and Joe turned off the lights and went upstairs. To her surprise, Joe was in an amorous mood. Once in bed he nudged closer to her, and ran his hand gently along her side. She found herself responding to his touch. They kissed, and pressed their bodies together. Joe's way was soft and slow, and Patty liked that. His fingers barely touched her as they swept across her, causing a tingling sensation to run up and down her spine. She did the same to him, and felt his penis growing hard against her thigh. He moved her onto her back and ran his fingers over her stomach, and then brought them up to trace her nipples.

They were still kissing, soft, gentle kisses, and Patty slid a finger up and down the underside of his penis. Joe was purring. He played around with her for awhile. They made love pretty much the same way every time, the same motions, the same procedure from start to finish. Every now and then Patty would wonder what it would be like to make love differently for a change, but she never brought it up because, for the most part, it was how she liked it also. It was that they were both comfortable with it. After a certain duration of stimulation, Joe rolled over on top of her and entered and she moaned as he moved in in out. They kissed each other on various parts of the face as she tightened and loosened and he went up and down. It went on like that for quite awhile, and was very pleasurable. When they had sex, it was good.

Pressure built slowly, finally forcing a climax, after which Joe remained on top of her and they hugged each other tightly. Wordlessly, they separated, and he assumed a position where he could kiss her breast, and she could stroke his hair and make the little noises that she knew he liked to hear. IN a little while, Joe fell asleep, and Patty opened her eyes. She was feeling warm and satisfied - no reason to complain, she smiled to herself. Everything was the way it ought to be. She was getting drowsy. But before she also fell asleep, the old tired rote of restless thoughts returned to pester her brain. They came in the form of stupid little sentences, phrases that seemed ridiculous, and she mocked them as they came.

- I need to start all over, she thought, and added,

- And so I will, first thing in the morning, just like usual.

- If only something could be different, she thought, and then

- something always is.

- If only I was doing some more creative work, she thought, and added

- so do it. stop moping. Jesus!

Thoughts to be ignored, tiny demons in her brain so banal, so redundant. In the final analysys, it was those thoughts that ought to go, that ought to be changed into something else. Without them, things would be different. They'd be better. Nothing else is wrong but those stupid little thoughts. And so Patty drifted off to sleep, laughing at herself, realizing that all she had to do was kill the killers, as it were. She was tired of being tired of her life, fed up with being fed up. Turn the tables on them, she thought, taken them to their logical conclusion - it would be so different to stop wanting things to be different. Ha!

Chapter ten

First things first, Patty thought, and then I'll take it as it comes. All afternoon she'd been plotting various scenes in her mind, planning hw to break the news. Already she'd thrown out a dozen moods, a dozen attitudes, in the search for the right way to put it, a way that maybe he would understand, wouldn't mind, might even give her some support. All of this thinking was only making her more nervous, the opposite of how she wanted to be when she brought it up. Should I tell him as soon as he comes home? During dinner? Afterwards, in the living room? How should I say it? How will he react? God, I don't know, but first things first. Mark will be getting home from school any minute now.

He was already a little late. He was walking home with Jimmy Rodgers, and the two of them decided to go over to the park with the playground and see what was going on, but it was filled with little kids, really little ones with their moms, so they didn't stick around. Jimmy wanted to do something fun, like going back to the school and throwing a brick through the cafeteria window, and he got mad when Mark said he didn't want to.

- Chicken! Jimmy taunted him.

- Stupid! Mark replied.

- What are you? Afraid to get caught?

- I ain't afraid, said Mark. It's just stupid.

- You're stupid, Jimmy said.

- Am not, said Mark. Anyway, I don't wanna go back there.

- Then what do you wanna do?

- I dunno, Mark said. Nothing.

And he really did want to do nothing, as he only then realized. He was tired. School was boring and he almost fell asleep and his brain was dulled and not working well. He was feeling worn out and all he wanted to do was go home. So he said goodbye to his friend who complained Òyou're no funÓ and he went home. Most of all he was angry at being so tired. It wasn't right. All he learned at school was how to not pay attention to what was going on around him. It taught him how to not have to think.

By the time he got home he was very irritable. Patty sensed this right off as he slammed the front door behind him and trudged into the kitchen.

- Hi honey, she said cheerfully.

- Hi mom, Mark droned.

He plopped onto a chair, folded his arms on the table and laid his head down as if to sleep. Patty reached over to him and stroked his head. He didn't respond.

- What's up? she asked.

- Nothing, he mumbled.

- How was school today?

- Awful.

- Oh well.

No what? she thought. There had been days like this before, days when seeming listlessness would suddenly become a rage at the slightest thing she said, and then he'd throw a tantrum. That was the last thing she wanted now. She was disappointed to see him like this, because now she had to be extra careful, and be sure not to say the wrong thing.

- Want some cookies?

- No thanks.

- Okay, she said.

She tood up and went to the cupboard and pulled out a box of chocolate chip cookies and set them on the table, then went to make herself another cup of coffee. Although I really shouldn't, she thought, I've had too much already. She'd been fidgety all day, had smoked a pack of cigarettes by now, had opened up another pack. It's really very simple, she thought as she waited for the water to boil. It all comes down to the bottom line. It'll go one way or the other, and the rest is nothing to worry about. She heard a rustling sound, and turned to see Mark opening the cookies.

- Want some milk? she asked.

- Okay, he said.

She got him some milk and set it before him. She started to say something else, but then the kettle began to whistle and she had to go and turn it off. She didn't say it until she came back and sat down and had lit another cigarette.

- I've got some news to tell you.

- News, Mark groaned. I hate news.

- What a thing to say! Patty remarked. I haven't even told you what it is.

- If it's news, I don't wanna hear it.

- Why not?

- ÔCause I hate the news.

- No, no, she laughed. Not Ôthe news'. Just news. Okay, I'll put it another way. I have something to tell you.

- What? he asked, as he gobbled up some cookies. Patty hesitated.

- I got a new job, she said.

- Really? Where?

He was trying not to act surprised.

- With the Gazette, she said. I'm going to be an editor.

- That's great, mom.

- It's full time, she said. You don't mind?

- Mind what?

- Well, things are going to be a little different around here. For one thing, I won't be here when you get home from school.

- That's okay, mom. I can take care of myself.

- I know you can.

Mark couldn't think of anything else to say. He thought it was good and would be good for her, because she wasn't happy being at home so much. It's about time, really, he thought, and he wondered why it had taken her so long. Also, she wasn't smiling, and didn't seem to be as excited as he thought she should be.

- What's the matter, mom? Don't you want the job?

- Of course I do, she said as she stubbed out the cigarette. I was just thinking about your father. WHat do you think he'll say?

- Oh, him, Mark said. You know what he'll say. Whatever you want, dear. Whatever you think is best, dear.

- You're probably right, she replied.

- He just doesn't care, Mark said. All he cares about is the news.

- That's not true.

- Yes it is! You could tell him anything and he'd say the same thing. Whatever you want, dear. Whatever you think is best, dear.

- Mark! please. He is your father, you know.

- So what? Mark was getting angry now. I don't even like him.

- Mark! Patty was preparing for the worst - a real scene.

- He doesn't care about anything unless he reads it in The Times or sees it on TV, Mark yelled.

But then he tried to calm down. He was too tired for a tantrum.

- Mark, Patty said softly. That's not nice.

- I don't care, he replied, quieter now. I wish he wasn't my father. I wish he didn't live here.

Patty said nothing, but sense the storm was ending and the best thing to do was let it end. So she grabbed herself a cookie and stuffed it in her mouth. She looked at her son, who had again buried his head in his arms on the table. Again Patty wondered how to put it to her husband.

- DOn't tell him, okay? she said. I want to tell him myself.

- I won't tell him, Mark said. Even if I did, he wouldn't hear it.

The boy is upset, Patty thought, but then again, he's also right. Sometimes it's hard to tell if Joe is really listening or not. But why do I keep worrying? she asked herself. Either it'll go the way I want or it won't, and there's nothing I can do about it now. She left her son in the kitchen to eat as many cookies as he wanted, and went into the living room, where she forced herself to read a book. The book was called ÒDo It YourselfÓ, and it was for people who had trouble making up their minds.

I don't need this, she thought as she read. I could do very well without this book, without any of these books, for that matter. What's the big deal about being selfish anyway? We all feel guilty when we act selfishly and maybe that's for a good reason. Maybe we're supposed to feel guilty so we know that selfishness is not a totally good thing. Carried to extremes, it leads to loneliness, isolation, emptiness. Sure it's good in some ways - if you don't look after yourself, then who will? But everybody goes their own way whether they want to or not. We all do it ourselves. It's a simple fact, nothing more. Do we really need this encouragement? Maybe it's just the wrong time for me to be reading it, with what I'm about to do now. Maybe I should read it in a month or two, when I'm starting to regret that I did it myself.

The author, Irene Jaquella, did it herself. At forty she went back to school and now, at fifty, she's a practising psychotherapist. Everyone should be like her. But I'm only twenty nine, Patty thought, and I don't have to go back to school because I already have a career - I just took a long vacation, that's all -and now I'm going back and things are going to be different from now on, not just working - everything. And if Joe doesn't like it, well, that's too bad for him. I have to do it myself. This is how she read thewhole book in three hours, not really reading it, but flipping the pages every now and then and thinking about her life. Naturally, the book taught her nothing, nor was she any less unsettled when she finally put it down.

She was cooking dinnger by the time Joe came home. She heard him come in the door, heard him place The Times on the coffee table so she could do the crossword puzzle later. She heard his Òoh goodÓ when he saw that the Newsbeat had arrived in the mail. This week, another crisis on the cover. Joe stood there and read the table of contents before he put it down and came into the kitchen.

- Hi honey, he said.

- Hello dear, she replied.

- Mmm, smells good. What is it?

- Pot roast, she said.

She was trembling when he kissed her on the cheek. He didn't notice, but leaned over the stove to note that peas and mashed potatoes were also on the menu. He smiled. His favorite meal. Patty was too nervous to say anything, except,

- It's almost ready. Five minutes.

- I'll get Mark, Joe volunteered.

- Okay, Patty said.

Joe walked up the stairs, almost humming. It had been a good day - nothing out of the ordinary, just one of those days when he knew that he could handle anything because everything that came his way was something he'd handled before. Life was gloriously the same as ever, and that was a miracle, if you thought about it. Change is so prevalent, so pervasive, so constant and unending that the fact that some things remain the same never ceased to amaze him. Even the news, he could admit to himself, was by and large the same thing over and over again. Oh, the specifics changed, but not the general stories nor their presentation. This insight was power, power to know that overwhelming catastrophes are part of the routine of this world, that sudden misfortune should never really be unexpected, that calamity was more of the same old thing, when you got right down to it, and so there was nothing to get excited about. Joe was beyond excitement. He was becoming more and more dispassionate daily, and he was glad of it.

It used to be that the world was frightening to him but now, with the help of the news, he had adapted to fear. And if you're not afraid of fear then it loses its excitement, becomes something you can handle. Joe could handle it now. He'd learned that much. War, famine, poverty, murder, rape, theft, divorse, misery, assault, inflation, insanity, all these daily things were interesting, to be sure, on the intellectual plane, but emotionally they couldn't touch him. His passions had been sucked dry by information overkill. And it's not that he was cold or dead to feeling, not at all, but he'd learned to keep his distancem because these things affect you, and you can't do anything about them, which only makes it worse. The key is detachment.

He entered Mark's room and saw his son lying on his bed, sleeping. Joe sat down beside him, and gently touched his shoulder. Mark stirred and opened his eyes.

- Dinner's almost ready, son.

- Okay, Mark mumbled. I'll be down in a minute.

- Okay, Joe said.

He got up and left the room, and headed back downstairs. Because, you see, it's important not to get carried away, not to get lost in all those feelings. Emotions are ticky things, snares, traps, and once you get caught up in them you can't see situations clearly, and if you can't see clearly, then you can't analyze, and if you can't analyze, you can't understand. That's why computers don't have emotions, otherwise they'd never get anything done. When there are so many intesting things happening in the world, it's crucial to put the emotions aside, or else you'll fall behind, and if you fall behind, how can you ever catch up, because so many interesting things keep happening. No, you have to keep your mind open and your heart protected. It's the onyl way to do it. But it's not easy. The easy thing to do is get all wrapped up in everything. It's hard to keep yourself apart. It takes time to get it right/ Joe felt that he'd finally gotten it right.

Dinner was delicious, and uneventful. Patty hardly said a word, but kept exchanging glances with Mark, who wasn't saying anything either. Joe was in a talkative mood though, and he lectured them on the importance of keeping your mind open and your heart protected, or else you'll get lost in this crazy world. He said,

- The trouble is, all the time the news is trying to make you feel something, especially the TV news, because that's how it works. It has to be exciting to keep your attention. Most of it is exaggeration covering up the central piece of information. You can't let them get to you with their burning babies and crashing airplanes and exploding cities and spilling chemicals - all those shots are playing on your emotions. The important thing is to extract the central piece of information.

- That's true, dear, Patty said.

- There's a central fact to every story, he continued. The rest is only window dressing. The point is to extract the fact, which is the important thing, and not let yourself get sidetracked by the emotions they're trying to instill in you: fear, sorrow, whatever. The important thing is simply to understand.

Patty should've been flattered, because she'd written all this, practically word for word in her column the previous week in the special Labor Day issue which no one ever read. Joe didn't seem to realize that he was only repeating her words. Mark knew it, and kept flashing disparaging looks at his mother, but Patty was distracted. She had other things in mind, like how to tell him and when. He was a reasonable man, she knew, but she was feeling very irrational that night and that would only make it worse. Calm down, she tried to tell herself. It's going to be all right.

- And we can only make decisions if we're thinking clearly, Joe said.

- That's true, dear, Patty said.

- What an asshole! Mark whispered.

- What? Patty asked him.

- I didn't say anything, Mark said.

Later, Mark helped Patty clean up while Joe grabbed another beer and settled into his chair with the Newsbeat. It was another good issue, with stories on the latest Russian economic revival, the Chinese counter-counter-counter-revolution, the new white government in South Africa, elections in Peru, and more. He read every article, as usual. There was an especially interesting one about the collapsing diamond market. Funny about the Chinese, too. Were they communist again, or what? It was hard to tell. There was never enough information about that.

Patty told Mark to go upstairs, and he obeyed. He was anxious to start his new game, in which Moses gets caught by the Pharoah. It was promising to be an exciting chase scene all the way, leading up to the climax when the Red Sea fails to part. The only problem was that the game wouldn't last too long, once Moses got his head chopped off. He'd have to think of another new game to play, maybe one about Columbus going down in the deep blue sea off the coast of Portugal. Nah, he'd try to come up with something totally different for a change. He was getting a little bored with these games. The trouble with changing things is then the only choice you have is to change them back again.

Patty sat down and picked up The Times which was open, as usual, to the crossword puzzle. She stared at the little white boxes and briefly noted one down, Ôalways'. Four letters. She had no idea, but she couldn't concentrate anyway. The page might as well have been blank. She looked at her husband, who was absorbed in his magazine. She took a deep breath, and said,

- Joe, I've got some news for you.

- Oh?

At the mention of the word Ônews', he put his magazine down and turned towards her.

- What is it?

- I got, she started to say, but it was coming out wrong, not the way she planned it.

- What? he repeated.

She took another deep breath. How should I say it?

- Joe, I want you to go away.

- What?

- I want you to go away, she said.

- Go away? I don't understand. What do you mean?

- I need. Oh, damn!

- What is it, honey? What do you need?

- I need a change, she said, spilling it out. I need to start all over. It's just not working out the way I want. I got a new job, and I want a new life to go with it.

- A new job? Where?

- At the Gazette. I'm going to be an editor. Full time.

- Why, that's greatm dear, if that's what you want. I think it's wonderful.

- So I want you to go - away - for awhile, for, oh, I don't know. I just want things to be different.

- I don't understand, Joe said.

He was confused. Obviously there was a central piece of information he had not extracted.

- Don't you? Patty asked. I can't stand this anymore. Everything is always the same, day in and day out. We never change. Nothing ever changes. It's driving me crazy. I can't go on like this.

- Whatever you want, dear, I want you to have. You know that. But I just don't know what you're saying. Once you start working, things will be differnt, won't they? What's all this about us going away.

- Not us, she said. You. I think maybe it would be good for us, give us some time to see where we've been, where we're going, whether we really want what we have.

- You know I do, honey, Joe said. Everything is fine with me. I have no reason to complain. I really don't understand.

- You don't have to! she almost shouted. You don't have to understand! Maybe you just can't understand, I don't know. I don't care. I just want you to go away. For me, please, Joe, just do it.

- But where will I go? For how long? What's all this about?

- I don't know, Patty said. Maybe you can stay in a hotel, or rent a place somewhere, or stay with someone, I don't know.

- Patty? Joe was very puzzled.

- Look, she said. We're in a rut, can't you see that? Our lives are nothing but habit and routine. We're boring, our life is dull and stupid. I'm sick and tired of it. Every day, I swear, every day exactly the same!

- I like it this way, Joe said.

- I know you do, she replied. And I hate it. It's got to change, don't you see? It shouldn't be like this?

- Why not?

- Because it's not right. We're like mice on a wheel, going around and around. And even mic get rick and tired of playing the same game over and over again. I just can't do it anymore. I want my life to change. I want it to be different.

- Just tell me what you want, Joe said. I'll do anything you want.

- Then go away, please.

Patty started to cry, but she wouldn't let him console her. She waved him away and kept crying, so he sat down again and waited. This was certainly a new situation for him, and he had to think it through. Of course he had read of such things happening, but Patty? Patty crying? She never did that. It must be important to her.

There was no question in his mind that he'd do whatever she aked him to. She should have known that, and could have proposed this calmly and rationally. All the fuss was only confusing the issue, and it's important to not get confused. Joe considered the information she'd imparted. Her life is dull, routine. She's tired of it. She's starting a new job, a good job, one that will be good for her. She wants me to go away - for a little while. It has to be for a little while, because she mentioned a hotel. Maybe just for a few days. An odd request, but by no means out of the question, but he had to find out more. What happens after he goes away? When does he come back? Is this a temporary separation she's proposing, like a vacation, or a trial separation leading to something more permanent. How much would it cost, this Ôgoing away'?

- Don't cry, Patty, he said. Everything's going to be all right. I love you. I'll do whatever you want me to.

She didn't stop crying. God damn it, she thought, here I've gone and botched the job. I swore I'd be cool and calm, confident, assured, all that crap, and now I can't stop crying and he doesn't know what the hell I'm talking about and I can't say it right. Damn!

- I'll go call Harry, Joe said. See if I can go over there tonight.

When he left the room, Patty suddenly realized that she'd gotten through to him, and he was accomodating her. He probably thinks I've gone crazy, she thought, but at the same time she was happy. It worked! I did it! Everything is going to be different from now on.

She listened to him talking, in a hushed voice, on the telephone in the kitchen. She couldn't make out exactly what he was saying. Probably that Patty wasn't feeling well and could he come over for a little while. Or maybe he wasn't telling them anything, but had invented some pretext for going over, but that wouldn't be like him. It was more like him to tell them everything that had transpired, word for word. Whatever, she didn't care, as long as he went, as long as she didn't have to spend another evening watching him read the news, watching him watch the TV, watching another night in her life fall victim to the brute force of habit.

She had no idea what she was going to do once he'd gone. She hadn't thought about that yet. All her mental energies had been focused on how to put it to him, how to phrase it, how she would act, how he would take it, and it hadn't turned out right at all, but that didn't seem to matter now that it had worked, and she was getting her way. She started to feel a little sorry for him, being suddenly confronted like that, out of the blue as it must have seemed to him. He'd had no warning - or rather, he'd ignored all the signs that had accumulated over the years. Maybe he was happy, but she wasn't, and no matter how she'd let it show, he'd never noticed. She felt thart she was justified in being so dramatic about it. It was the only way to get his attention.

She stopped crying as she imagined Joe hearing about it on the news. She had an image of the broadcaster announcing,

- Mrs. Patricia Baker, of 55 Canyon Mill Drive, is bored with her life and wants her husband, Mr. Joseph Baker, to go away so she can start over and maybe get it right this time...

And Joe would sit there watching, maybe nodding his head, and deciding whether it was good or bad, and what exactly was the central piece of information. I shouldn't be joking about it, Patty thought, this is supposed to be a sad and solemn occasion, but she couldn't help smiling in anticipation of the new different way. She lost the smile the moment before Joe returned from the kitchen. He looked worried, worried about her. SHe was right that he was thinking she was ill. He was going to treat her gently, since her outburst and her crying were apparent symptoms of some kind of illness. Perhaps she had a fever. He didn't know. Harry had been very surprised to hear about it, but Joe hadn't told him much, only that Patty wanted to be alone, so could he come over? Sure.

- I'm going over to Harry's, Joe said.

- Okay, said Patty.

They were both silent for a long moment. Patty was staring at the floor, and Joe was gazing fondly at her with that concerned expression he reserved for the flu.

- Are you sure you want me to go?

- Yes.

- Are you feeling okay?

- I'll be okay.

- Okay.

She certainly was in a strange mood. He'd never seen her like this before, not even during those times of the month. This was different, and he really had no idea what was going through her mind. But he was obedient, and anxious to please her. After all, she's my wife, and whatever she wants. So he went upstairs to get some things together. He'd need a shirt, shorts and socked for the next day, pajamas for the night, toothbrush, toothpaste, comb, razor blade, shaving cream. As he packed it occurred to him that it had been many years since he'd spent a night away from home. That didn't please him. He hadn't spent a night anywhere else because he hadn't wanted to, and he didn't want to now. Still, he wasn't angry. He was disturbed.

He tried again to talk with her when he came back downstairs with his overnight bag, but Patty was not being communicative. He decided that he should just go and let her calm down, and he'd giver a phone call later and maybe even come home so they could discuss the matter like rational adults. That was better than trying to force the issue now, which would only make things worse. He didn't want to make her angry with him. He said goodbye and backed out the front door, waiting for her to say goodbye, but she didn't. She was still sitting in her chair, staring at the carpet as he left. She was greatly relieved when the foor finally closed and she could move.

She got up and decided to make herself another cup of coffee. She did so, and then sat in the kitchen, sipping it and smoking one cigarette after another. Her nerves were still shaky and her mind was only beginning to clear from the stress. I really did it, she thought. I told him to get lost. Well, maybe not in those exact words, but - no, I didn't even say what I wanted to, that it's time we ended it. But maybe it's good I didn't say it, I don't know. Now he's gone and I think I've done the right thing.

All this time, Mark had been upstairs playing, and he hadn't heard a word of it. Moses had gotten caught and all and that game was over, and he was trying to think of something else to do. He gathered all of his soldiers together, and decided he'd just split them into two sides, have a war, and see who won. He'd just invent some countries, a border dispute, a few religious fanatics, and that would be it. Both generals would be pretty equal so he wouldn't play favorites. Probably everyone would get killed but that was okay because it was only just pretend. He split the group of soldiers in two, and lined them up facing each other, but by the time that was done he didn't feel like playing anymore, so he left them there on the floor and jumped on his bed. He lay there thinking about his mom's job and how she said everything was going to be different. He hoped she knew what she was doing. She didn't have to do it, but if she wanted to it was fine with him. Whatever she wanted.

Chapter eleven

Joe hadn't figured anything out by the time he got to Harry and Ruth's. This was something totally outside the realm of the usual. There was no precedent in their life together, noting he could compare it to. Had she seemed despondent lately? If so, he hadn't noticed. He was happy for her, about the job - he'd have encouraged her before if he hadn't thought she would think he was being critical. Surely she knew that whatever she wanted to do was fine with him. It was Patty who'd wanted the child, who'd wanted to have it out of wedlock, who'd wanted to keep working after having the child, who'd wanted the house, who'd later wanted to quit working fulltime. And he had supported every decision she made. They got married when she wanted to, only then. He'd wanted to before, but she said no, marriage was pointless and not really necessary if two people truly loved each other.

And he loved her - could she doubt it? There had never been another womanin his life: not a mother, for he had never known her. Not a sister or father or brothers for that matter, only the men and boys at St. William's Orphanage. There had been no one before her and no one since. He thought he'd been good to her, no, he was sure of it. He'd given her no reason to complain. She said she was bored - was that his fault? He thought she liked their life together the way it was. She'd never said a word to him about it before. How could someone become so differnet so suddenly? What if it could happen to me? The thought was horrifying, and his mind rebelled - but I don't want to be different, I just want to be me, the way I am and always have been.

He drove over to the Sellers' in his new car, though they lived only a few blocks away, just in case he actually did end up spending the night there. As he pulled into the driveway he realized it would probably happen. It hadn't hit him before. Harry and Basic were at the door waiting as he climbed out of the car and walked up the little front path. Harry had the screen door closed so Basic wouldn't get out. If the dog got out, they wouldn't see him again until about four in the morning, and then they would hear him first, the whole neighborhood would hear him. So Harry held the dog back as Joe came into the house carrying his little airplane bag. All Joe could think at that moment was that he'd never been in an airplane. He'd bought the bag at FedCorTron.

- Hi Harry, he said. Look, I'm really sorry about all this.

- No, no, come on in, Harry said. It's no trouble at all.

As the three of them trooped into the living room, Ruth came downstairs and said,

- Joe. Joe, what's going on?

- I'm not sure, Joe said, and he shrugged.

- Well, come on in, sit down. Let me get you a beer, Harry said.

Joe sat on the sofa. Ruth pulled a chair up close to him and sat down as Harry went into the kitchen. She leaned forward and stared at him while he looked down at the floor.

- I feel pretty strange, Joe said, and Ruth didn't reply.

She waited until Harry came back with a couple of beers. After Joe had swallowed some, she said,

- No, tell us exactly what she said.

- It's all so odd, Joe said. I really don't understand what's gotten into her all of a sudden. I was just sitting there reading a magazine, and she was doing her crossword puzzle, when all of a sudden she said, ÔJoe, I want you to go away'.

- Just like that? Harry was puzzled.

He was still wearing his worry face, which he'd put on as soon as he'd hung up the phone.

- What else? Ruth asked.

- Then she started saying all sorts of things, about how she needs a change, that she wants to start all over, that's it not working right, and she told me she's taking a new job, going back to work full time at the Gazette. I said that's great, I really think it is, and then said said it again, ÔJoe, I want you to go away'.

- Go away where? Ruth asked.

- I don't know. Anywhere, I guess, just as long as I'm not there. SHe said she was bored.

- Yes, I know that, Ruth said.

- Really? Joe was surprised. I had no idea. She never said a word to me.

- She didn't want to hurt you, Ruth said, and as she said it she thought, so now she's gone and hurt him big and he doesn't even feel it yet. Why did she do it like this?

- WHat did she say? Harry asked. She wanted you to spend the night somewhere else? A couple of nights?

- She didn't really say, Joe said. For a while, I think, but maybe not too long. She said something about maybe I could stay at a hotel or something.

- A hotel? That's strange.

- Yeah, Joe said.

- Is she feeling okay? Ruth wanted to know. Maybe she should see a doctor.

- That's what I thought, said Joe. Maybe she's got the flu, some kind of fever or something, and she doesn't really know what she's saying. That's why I thought it would be best if I just came over here for a little while, so she can calm down, maybe get some rest, and I'll call her later and maybe she'll be feeling better.

- I should go over there, said Ruth. I'm worried about her.

- Maybe that would be a good idea, Joe said. I don't know. SHe wasn't making any sense, wasn't coherent, and you know Patty. Usually she says exactly what she means so there's no doubt about it. But tonight, she was even crying, you know. I don't think I've ever seen her cry before. And she wouldn't even let me try and comfort her, wouldn't let me even get near. I've never seen her like this. I don't know what's going on.

Joe shook his head and drank some more beer. He was getting even more confused just talking about it. He knew it didn't add up. There was something missing, some vital piece of information she'd failed to impart. Harry and Ruth were quiet, sat there exchanging concerned glances. This was probably the last thing they expected to happen. Their best friends, in a situation like this. WHo could believe it? Ruth got up, patting Joe on the knee as she did, and said,

- I really think I'd better go over there and see what I can do. This just isn't like her.

- Okay, dear, Harry said.

- Okay, said Joe.

Basic followed her to the door, but she managed to squeeze out, leaving him behind. He barked a couple of times, and then retreated to the living room, where he panted loudly in front of Joe until Joe reached out and patted his head. For quite some time, the men were silent. Harry couldn't think of anything appropriate to say. He wasn't good at things like this. He was sympathetic, far beyond words, and the combination made him feel helpless. There was nothing he could do but feel Joe's sorrow, and it just wasn't enough to do. He had to say something.

- It's going to be okay, he said.

- Yeah, you're probably right, said Joe. Hell, I'm sure of it. I'll probably be home in a little while. Ruth'll call and everything will be all right.

- I'm sure, Harry said.

Again silence reigned. They weren't even looking at each other now. Harry was becoming very uncomfortable, and this made him annoyed with himself. Heck, he thought, this is my best friend here and he's in trouble and he needs my help but all I can think about is how awkward I'm feeling. I ought to be ashamed of myself. He started remembering days gone by, when the two of them would sit and talk for hours about all sorts of things. Usually Joe was the one who knew all the interesting stuff, and Harry'd be there agreeing with him and listening to every word. In those days, Joe had seemed like a fountain of knowledge to Harry - he almost laughed remembering Grant's nickname for him: Ôwatch out, folks, here comes the infoman.'

- Hey, remember what they used to call you? Harry asked, wanting desparately to relieve the building tension.

- Infoman, Joe murmered.

He couldn't help but answer a direct question, though now he took no delight in it. That was how he got the name in the first place, because he could never resists answering a question. They used to ask him all sorts of stuff, and even if he didn't know he always tried his best to answer. He was proud that most of the time he could tell them something. He'd been proud of the name as well, especially back at State when he was planning to become a journalist. Later the name stuck, as Joe never ceased his unrelenting efforts to find out everything he could about everything that was going on in the world. These days not so many people asked him questions, but when they did, they were rarely disappointed.

- I used to think you knew everything, Harry said, and although he'd intended to say it in a nostalgic way, somehow it didn't seem to come out right, and he wished he hadn't said it.

- I used to want to, Joe said, perking up a bit. Not anymore, though. Now I know there are things I don't want to know anything about.

- Like what?

- Like what strangers do in their bedrooms, whether they're famous or not. Like what politicians do in theirs. Like who uses what drugs and where they get them. I don't want to know about the childhoods of movie stars, or about their deepest desires. I don't want to know about people who were kidnapped by aliens, or who died and came back. I don't want to know about which diets really work, or what my astrology column has to say. I don't want to know who died or how or where they were disposed of, or when the services were held. I don't want to know what people are seeling in the classifieds, or which laundry detergent gets whites whiter. I don't give a damn about any of these things. They just don't matter to me at all.

Joe had delivered this speech lazily, and Harry could not detect what emotion, if any, lay behind it. He didn't sound angry or ironic, annoyed or amused. He sounded matter-of-fact, and that was just like him. He had merely answered the question.

- I agree, Harry said. Those are pretty stupid things to know.

- Yes, they are, Joe said. And it's amazing how many people are really interested in those sorts of things. I mean, have you ever thought about it? All kinds of people read the papers every day, and they each have their favorite sections. Me, I read the real news and the sports first - those are the things I'm interested in, the things I want to know about. Other people read the classifieds, each ad from start to finish. I've seen them. Some people read the cartoons, other people look at all the ads. And that's okay. I don't mean to criticize - to each his own. Still, it's interesting.

- I'm with you, Harry said. News and sports.

- The news is tricky, Joe said. I'm just beginning to realize it. Something Patty said. She doesn't think I really read her columns, but I always learn something from them, you know? She's very smart.

- Smarter than me, Harry said.

- A hell of a lot smarter than me, Joe said. That's why I figure that she knows what she's doing, even though I don't really understand. She always knows exactly what she's doing.

- Yep, she sure does, Harry agreed. What'd she say about the news?

- The news?

- Yeah, you were just saying it's tricky.

- Oh yeah, Joe said. You see, most of the time in the news, they're busy trying to make you feel something - that's what matters to them. They have to hit your emotions in order to keep your interest, or at least they think they do. Really, it's the same as propaganda, the techniques of that. On the one hand, there are the facts, and it's their job to report the facts. But if that's all they did, it wouldn't be the same, so they pile in lots of emotional stuff. They don't just say, like, there was a fire and three people were killed. No, they tell you that and then they do and interview the wounded, the survivors, the firefighters and the neighbors - and it's all emotional stuff. So you gotta watch out for them. If you just want the plain information you can find it, but you have to sift throught the story for it. I'm still just beginning to see how it works.

- Wow, Harry said. Gee, I never thought about that before. It's true, you know, come to think of it.

- Yeah, it is, Joe replied.

- And Patty wrote all that?

- More, and better, Joe said. She explained it a lot better than I can. She really understands it. I wonder how it's going over there. Maybe I should call.

- Don't, Harry said. Let's just wait. Ruth'll let us know when she's ready, when they're ready. Let the women work it out themselves.

- Yeah, you're right, Joe said. I'm just a little anxious.

- Me too, Harry said. But it'll be okay, I'm sure. Hey, how about another beer?

- Sure. Thanks, Harry.

While Harry went off to the kitchen, Joe relaxed a bit and leaned back. For a moment, while he was talking, everything almost felt normal, just paying a vists, shooting the shit while the women were off somewhere else doing something else. But by the time Harry returned with the beers, Joe was remembering the condition Patty was in, how she'd been crying, how incoherent she'd been, not like her at all.

- I just don't understand, Joe said. How can somebody be so different like that and all of a sudden? I'd almost swear that wasn't my wife back there, you know? Hell, I know Patty as well as I know myself, and I've never seen her like that before.

- Beats me, Harry said.

- I mean, it's not like she's having her period or anything. She never gets like that, never. And all the things she was saying, about wanting things to be different - she'd never wanted things to be different before, as far as I know. She was always so happy. Hell, maybe I don't know her as well as I thought I did.

- You two always seemed to get along so well, Harry said. You never had any fights, no scenes or anything. I can't believe it.

- We were happy, Joe said. Hell, we are happy, what am I saying? At least I'm happy. I know that for sure.

- Ruth and I were just saying about you two, about how well you get along, about how patient and tolerant you are with each other. A perfect match, that's what I said, and Ruth said yep, they don't make Ôem any better.

- How about you guys? Joe said. You two are the most perfect couple I ever knew. Hell, you're together almost all the time.

- Oh we have our problems, Harry said.

- But you get along.

- Yeah, we get along all right, Harry said. Somehow, we manage.

- I knew you'd probably come over, Patty said as she answered the doorbell and saw Ruth standing there.

- Can I come in? Ruth asked.

- Of course, Patty said, come on in.

She opened the door and led her into the living room. Ruth followed cautiously. All the way over she'd been working up her tact, preparing herself to deal delicately with a delicate situation - something she wasn't naturally good at doing. But to her surprise Patty wasn't crying, didn't seem upset. In fact, she didn't seem any different at all. Ruth's curiousity was piqued.

- Can I get you a drink? Patty asked.

- No thanks, Ruth replied.

- Come on, join me. I insist, Patty said.

- Well, okay, but a small one, with plenty of ice.

- Sure thing, Patty said and she went off to fix them. Ruth took Joe's seat, noting the Newsbeat and The Times puzzle page next to it on the coffee table. The puzzle was completely filled in. Patty returned shortly with two glasses, and sat in her own chair as she handed one to Ruth.

- To change, she toasted and clinked Ruth's glass with hers.

After having a small sip, Ruth said,

- Patty! What's gotten into you?

Patty laughed and shook her head.

- I don't see what's so funny, Ruth said. Joe tells us you've kicked him out of the house and he's over there right now worried sick about you. How are you feeling? Are you ill? Are you feeling better now?

- I'm sorry, Ruth, Patty said. I was just laughing at myself. Oh, how can I explain it to you? I wanted to put it to him so differently, but I ended up just blurting it out and it came out all wrong.

- Joe says you were crying.

- Yes, because it wasn't going the way I had planned it. God, Ruth, I've just been going crazy lately. Every day it gets worse and worse. Do you know what it's like to live the exact same day over and over egain - I mean exactly the same, down to every word, every motion, every little thing. I just need a change so bad. God, just a change.

- Joe says you got a new job. That's a change.

- Yes, yes, Patty nodded vigorously. It is and it's going to be good. But it's not enough, you see. I've gotten into this rut, and it's taken over my whole life, poisoned everything, and I've got to be shaken out of it, so like everything has to change, at least until I'm refreshed a bit. I have to learn all over again what it's like to be alive, to be free from the deadly repetitiveness of this life I've been living.

- But what about Joe? Ruth asked. Aren't you being unfair to him? WHy does he have to suffer for it?

- Oh, Ruth, I'm doing this for his own good, too. He's in a rut too, only with him it's even worse, because he's actually convinced that he likes it this way. There's almost no spontaneity left in him, no creativity at all. Everything he does he's done before. There's nothing new in his life. He doesn;t even want anything new to happen. Really, Ruth, he's scared to death of it.

- So you're just going to push him into it, is that it? Whether he wants it nor now? And for his own good?

- Exactly, Patty said, and she smiled.

- I don't know, Ruth said. It doesn't sound very fair. Say, how long are you planning to have him gone, anyway?

- I'm not sure yet, Patty said. We'll have to see how it goes. Maybe it'll be a few days, maybe forever.

- Patty!

- Well, I just don't know, Patty said. What if it turns out that we're happier without each other? It's possible, you know. And we haven't been apart at all in more than eight years. Maybe we really need to get away from each other, so we can get a fresh look at it, you know, where we've been and where we're going. Who knows what's going to happen?

- I know, Ruth said. I know what's going to happen. You're both going to be miserable, that's what's going to happen. Patty, you're part of each other by now, don't you realize that?

- Maybe we're too much a part of each other, she said. Maybe we can't tell anymore where one of us beings and the other one ends. And if we're miserable, then we'll just get back together, that's all.

- I don't know, Ruth said. You make it sound like it was a mutual decision, but that's not how it is. Joe would never have agreed to it.

- Of course he wouldn't, Patty said. It's like I was telling you. He almost worships the status quo. I swear, that man has practically no variety in his life anymore. He didn't used to be like that. You remember. Back in school he was original and imaginative, and he liked to play with ideas - not anymore. It's as if his tastes have simply ossified over the years, and now they're in such a rigid state that he simply can;t let anything new in. It's not healthy, Ruth. If he goes on this way, he'll be an old man before his time. My God, he's only thirty-two, you know.

- Okay, Ruth said. I know what you're saying and I agree with you. Joe had become kind of stuck in the mud these past few years, but there has to be another way to get him out of it, don't you think?

- I can't think of any other way, Patty said. He has to be forced to change, or else he never will.

- What if he doesn't anyway? What if your plan doesn't work?

- Then I'll know I did the right thing, and that we're irreconcilable. Please, Ruth, I thought it out. I know what I'm doing.

- I'll be you do, said Ruth.

She looked over at Patty, who was smiling. Such a strange woman, Ruth thought. Do I envy her?

- What about Mark? she asked.

- He doesn't know yet, Patty said. But I don't think he'll be too upset. They haven't been getting along very well, you know. They're becoming strangers to each other. Maybe this will be good for them.

- And maybe not, said Ruth.

- It's possible, Patty said. I don't know. Maybe Mark will miss his dad if he's not around, and maybe Joe will miss his son and they'll both want to spend more time together. On othe other hand, they might not miss each other at all. It's all worth it just to find that out.

- Patty, Ruth said. Listen. You know I don't want to pry, and you don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but is it, is there someone else?

- Another man? Patty laughed. Honey, the last thing I need is another man.

- I know what you mean, Ruth said.

They both began to laugh, and when they stopped the mood between them had changed. Ruth no longer disapproved of what Patty had done. IN fact, she even began to agree with her. After all, if they were in such a rut, which they were, than it was good to shake things up a but and see how the cookie crumbled. You could learn a lot from that. It was a risk, sure, but sometimes you have to take risks. Ruth realized that she was in fact a little envious. It took some nerve to do what Patty was doing, even if she had botched the job a bit. Certainly Joe could be made to understand. He might not think it was such a great idea, but if Patty though it was, he'd be willing to go along. After all, she was the brains of the family.

They both had another drink and sat around talking about what an adventure it could be. They decided it wouldn't be too difficult to find a furnished flat downtown for Joe, one he could lease by the week, just in case. Ruth was thinking more and more that it was important to step back sometimes and see your life from a new perspective. That was the only way you could find out who you were, and you could compare yourself to the person you wanted to be, and see what had to be done in order to accomplish that. She would never do this thing herself. There was no reason to. Harry was a perfect mirror and Ruth could see herself precisely through him. There was nothing in her life she wanted to change.

But for Patty, it was a different matter. She'd been growing increasingly bored for some time, and was worried about turning into a stale and bitter woman, a woman who took no chances, a woman who did nothing with her life. She despised that looming image of herself, and now was the time to chase it away. She wasn't going to spend her whole life being tired, reading lousy books, complaining about everything. She wasn't going to be one of those pitiful people who sit around all day being angry at everyone else because she wasn't them. No, things were going to be different for a change. Pretty soon she was going to be challenged every day, and it would be good for her. Her mind would grow sharp again, her sense of the immediacy of reality would return to its former vividness.

And coming home in the evening, she would not be able to succumb to the temptation of doing everything the easy way, to get comfortable in that all too familiar indolence, with Joe by her side, going through the usual routine, night after night. Not anymore. She said all this and more to Ruth, and they talked and talked for a couple of hours. At length, Ruth remembered the men, who were probably still waiting up to hear from her, and she decided that she really should be getting home. Patty thanked her very much. She was glad that Ruth had come over - she'd gotten a lot of things off her chest, had been able to clear her mind of vagueness and confusion. Now she knew that she had done the right thing after all.

After Ruth left, Patty went straight to bed. It was kind of strange, Joe not being there, and knowing that he wouldn't be. She was pretty high anyway, and she enjoyed being alone. She spread out so as to take up the entire bed. She rolled over a few times, and smiled. She was daydreaming about a future - nothing specific came to mind, just a happy sense of starting over, knowing that this future could be anything. She was feeling good, content. She had finally done what she had wanted to do for so long. All that worrying and fretting, and now it was done, for better or for worse. Time would tell.

Mark probably knew by now. He'd have been up there listening in, no doubt. And he hadn't come down to say goodnight. Patty wondered what he thought about all this. Was he angry with her? Was he angry with Joe? She thought it was going to be a good thing for the two of them. Maybe they'd get to be friends again, like they used to be. Everything had become so predictable, so automatic. By the time she fell asleep, she was totally convinced she'd done the best thing possible, not only for herself, but for the whole family. They'd all be better for it. That night she dreamed that they were all together, Mark, Joe and herself, talking and laughing and loving each other very much.

Chapter twelve

He woke up in a panic. He was not lying on his own bed, but in an unfamiliar room, with orange curtains and brown walls. His heart raced as he stared around, thinking, where is this? where am I? And he remembered having felt this way before - yesterday, in fact - and was reassured. Of course it was all right. He realized where he was. Quickly banishing the fright, Joe got up and went about his morning tasks. He left the bed unmade, vagualy aware of the fact that by the time he came home from work it would be straightened up. That was part of the price. This was an apartment hotel, the Desert Arms, in downtown Jamestown. In the two weeks since he'd moved in, he'd almost gotten used to it. Once he got over the daily shock of waking up in this room, everything would be okay.

It wasn't such a bad place, really. There was a little cafeteria in the lobby where he ate breakfast and sometimes dinner, but if he ended up staying here for very long, he'd have to learn how to cook for himself, or eat cheaper at least. WHat with the mortgage and the new car and this, not to mention the other needs of his wife and son, Joe's budget was being stretched beyond the limit. That was not something he had seriously begun to worry about. He was taking it as it came, a day at a time. He had no idea what the near future held for him. And this place was clean, cleaner than his own house, in fact. Here there were maids who did a good job. It was not such a new thing to have a maid. Most husbands already have one.

Only a few days before, he'd finally gotten around to unpacking, so his clothes were all in the dresser and in the closet. Everything was set up again, and after a lazy week and a half, during which he did almost nothing in the evening but watch TV, his life was back in order. He had all the things he needed in their most efficient places, and he had no more of those moments when suddenly he couldn't find something and he realized he was not at home, that things had changed. But now the towel was waiting for him as he stepped out of the shower, his razor and shaving cream and toothbrush and toothpaste we waiting for him on the sink. His comb was handy, his clothes were ready. He didn't have to think. He went through the usual morning routine without a hitch. When he got out of the elevator a few minutes later, there was The Times waiting for him on the lobby counter, and his favorite table was untaken in the cafeteria.

He had his usual breakfast - two eggs over easy, white toast and coffee, as he ploughed through The Times. The Republican presidential hopeful, Billy Morgan, had called President Harper Ôa wimp'. MORGAN CALLS HARPER A WIMP. Unemployment was down again, to five point nine percent, but interest rates were rising. The stock market, which hates low unemployment and prefers lower interest rates, was falling. Twelve people died when a church steeple toppled and fell onto Fourth Street near Deliria. Eleven others were injured. Losses were estimated in the hundreds of thousands of dollars. They interviewed a witness, who said it was Ôincredible'. The pastor of the church lamented the awful calamity and blamaed it on the architect, who could not immediately be reached for comment. Mothers cried, fathers cursed, sisters, brothers, aunts and uncles of the deceased were in mourning. The wife of toilet paper heir Wilfred Scott was suing her husband for divorce on the grounds of malicious maltreatment. She claimed that Mr. Scott had been sleeping with the husband of her best friend, feminie protection magnate Tricia Maxique. Photo of Mr. Scott, smiling.

Lately Joe was beginning to notice that most of the news was irrelevant, if not downright unnecessary. He attempted to shield his conscious mind from this insight, because the news had always been so vital to him. He'd always felt that it was alive, exciting, vibrant, more real than real. With all the scandals and intrigues and adventures and mishaps, the news was more interesting than life. But he couldn't help but see how trivial so much of it was. For instance, these tragedies - fire, crashes, shootings, terrorism - terrible things, to be sure, but always evoking the same feeble response: golly, what a shame. Too much of this and you could feel that life is mostly a shame, to be ashamed of. These things happen, Joe said, and it doesn't matter how we respond. They still happen anyway.

Last week he'd read Patty's column in the Gazette, and it was about doing the things you can do, and leaving alone what you can't. She'd written that if you involve yourself in things that are beyond your ability to affect, you only end up feeling even more powerless, helpless and small, as if you don't matter. But on the other hand, if you confine your activities to the things that are within your power, not only will you feel better about yourself and others, but you'll also get something done. It's not true, she'd written, that individuals are ineffectual. The important thing is to reconsider what you consider to be important. Once you realign your goals on a more realistic basis, you can realize gains that really are worthwhile. Joe thought it was probably a good idea not to let himself get sucked in by the news, let it play him for a sucker. He knew it was all out of his hands, and he should really let it be.

While this attitude might save him from feeling powerless (which he was anyway, so why try to pretend otherwise), it also diminished his enjoyment of The Times, and he was not happy about that. The problem with learning, he thought, is that it makes you uncomfortable. You only learn what a fool you've been all along. He wanted to stop thinking about it and go back to the old way of reading all the articles without looking too closely at them, without being critical or forming any opinions. He banished Patty's writings from his mind, and concentrated on concentrating with an open mind. There are more unwed mothers now than ever before in history - golly, what a shame. And yet more mothers want to be unwed than ever before. How about that? Teenage mothers - now there's a phrase wich always brings a frown and a scold. You'd think that nature is bad because it doesn't know how to wait for women to be Ôold enough' before it makes them able to have babies. Nature should be ashamed of itself. Police officer shot in alley. No witnesses. No suspects. Joe noted the name of the alley. It might come in handy to know that.

And of course that's why he liked to read the news so much, not to become emotionally involved, but toaccumulate facts which may become useful at some later time. Patty's advice had nothing to do with him, and he was able to return to his normal method of reading. And now he knew that Brimmer Alley could be dangerous for a cop on a wednesday night around two in the morning, for whatever that fact was worth. FBI INVESTIGATE JUROR DEATH.

- I think it is good that they're going to look into it, Juror's cousin says. I'm pretty sure it will show wrongdoing. They violated his civil rights.

As far as the Desert Arms was concerned, it had its advantages and its drawbacks. On the one hand, he could spend more time with the paper over breakfast, since he was living only a few blocks from the office. On the other hand, since he no longer had to commute, he was deprived of his favorite show, Don Summons on K.N.O.W.. He was thinking about buying one of those portable radios with headphones so he could listen as he walked to work. He was a little embarrassed about the idea - he thought he'd look silly, and he wouldn't notice what was happening around him, so he could be vulnerable. But life was not the same without Don Summons.

Summons was not fond of the President, and even less happy with the VP, an african american woman of exceedingly liberal views. He considered them as throwbacks to the old days when the Democrats had all the power and made a total mess of everything. Still, he did give them some credit, especially for the urban renewal and conservation programs under the auspices of the Destitution Institution. And Summons was also opposed to Billy Morgan, who was a cranky and vicious man who lost his temper easily and often, and had once said that a nuclear war might be a good thing, just to finally get it over and done with. Joe was eager to hear what Summons had to say about Morgan's latest name-calling incident, but he had no radio. If he didn't get one soon, he was afraid he wouldn't know what his opinions should be.

He finished reading the front section, and checked his watch. Time to go. He got up and went over to pay the cashier. She was a friendly woman who always smiled and never asked questions. What she might have thought of him was a mystery. Perhaps she was as uninterested in him as he was in her. He calmly strode out of the building and onto the street. He took no notice of his surroundings as he walked to work. In fact, he paid no attention to anything. He just walked. He'd looked around the first few days, just to make sure of the area, and he'd memorized everything on the route, so he was now free to ignore it all. There were a few corner groceries, a donut shop, a liquor store, a card shop, and several large office buildings.

Joe had never been very fond of downtown Jamestown. It was an unsettling place. Its progress seemed regressive. Every new feature added was a reminded of how similar all cities are to one another. The streets weren't clean and the traffic was loud. Everyone was always in a hurry. The air was polluted, especially by late afternoon, and the buildings blocked out too much of the sky. These were common complaints, and Joe uttered them like everyone else. But all the jobs were there, his job was there and so he managed to endure it. As he walked to work, he blocked the city from his mind. It does no good to complain, anyway. Soon enough he was there, entering the Jerome building, onto the elevator, into the office on the eighth floor, where everything was still the same.

- He was so gorgeous, Betty was saying. You should've seen him.

- Really? Suzie asked.

Joe sat down at his desk and didn't hear the rest of their conversation. Not now, at this time of day. Later, when his brain was tired, he'd be unable to filter out unwelcome noises at will, but in the morning he could hear absolutely nothing, if he so chose. He found a note in the top drawer of his desk. Opening it, he saw it was from Bill, asking for a pointer or two. Bill simply could not make any sense out of this week's package from the Tidbits cat food company. Something about coupons. What are we supposed to do about coupons, the note asked. It was an easy question, so easy that Joe couldn't help but decide to answer, even though Mo would yell at him if he ever heard about it. Bill was good at complicated maters, but the simplest things always tripped him up.

Joe set the note aside and was preparing to take on the first manila folder of the day, when his intercom buzzed, and he was informed that he had a call on line six. He answered it.

- Joe Baker.

- Joe, hey, Bob here. Listen. I know you can't talk during business hours, so I'll make it quick. The game's still on for tonight, isn't it?

- Yeah, at my place.

- Where is your place?

- Desert Arms, Joe said. twelve fourteen King Street. number four oh seven.

- OKay, great. Eight o'clock okay?

- Fine.

- Should we bring something?

- Sure. Bring some brew.

- Will do. Okay. See you later, old boy.

- See you, Bob.

He hung up the phone, pleased with the call. He was looking forward to the poker game that night. It would be the first time they'd all come over to his new place. Harry had been there - even before Joe. It was Harry who'd found the place. Someone he knew knew someone who knew something about it. But Bob and Grant hadn't seen it yet. And it had been a whikle since they'd all gotten together for a friendly game of cards. Should be fun. It was a good sign that Bob hadn't asked him any personal questions. He was getting tired of his friends being Ôconcerned'. Harry called every night just to make sure he was Ôdoing all right'. Of course I'm doing all right, Joe thought. I'm a grown man. I can take care of myself.

It was probably true that Harry would have fallen to pieces if it was him who'd been kicked out of his own house, and only natural that he would ascribe his own fears to Joe, but if there was one thing Joe understood, it was endurance. He was the most patient man he'd ever known. He'd acquired this trait by long, hard practice. He'd endured all those tedious years at the orphanage, the boring school days year after year, all those years of a dull job in a stifling environment. If his life had been largely unevenful, in comparison with the news and the things that happen on TV, at least he knew how to endure.

The thing he knew how to endure the best was himself. He'd come to know, at far too young an age, exactly who he was, and this he'd accepted. This self-understanding prevented him from changing, for that would make him someone else, but that was part of the price he'd paid for the ability to not be dissatisfied. His father figures from St. William's were two very different men. Father Patrick was a self-made failure, a man who could never see how he was constantly defeating his own purposes, though it was [ainfully obvious to all who knew him. He was forever attempting to achieve things beyong his ability. It was no wonder that he never accomplished his goals. Joe learned from him to limit himself to things he knew he could do, like bookkeeping. He'd always been good at math.

Father Stephen was an incessant griper, and from him Joe learned how to never complain, never! Complaining was one of the few things he really hated, along with people who eat too much. Both of these attributes were indicative of swollen egos. They presupposed that the universe revolved around their needs, which was simply irrational, as far as he could see. He did not like ambition or self indulgence. Grant and Bob's obsessions with earning money had always struck him as childish, but of course he didn't complain. It was none of his business. He thought of himself as the average, ordinary, normal man. This, at least, was what he wanted to be.

This was all part of the agreement he'd reached with himself at te age of twelve. I'm just an ordinary person, he'd decided, and I'm bever going to be anything else. I'm not very smart, and I'm not good with people. I have no charisma, I'm not charming, I'm not witty, and I'm not good looking. Really, I'm pretty dull. Very well, that's who I am, and it's no good griping about it or feeling sorry for myself, because that's just the way it is and the way it's going to be. I'm not going to go out there and try to win, try to get everything to go my way. Whatever comes, that's good. If love comes into my life, great. If it goes away, okay. I'm not going to kid myself. Whatever is meant to be will be, and I'm just going to be what I am.

Since that time, he'd had no need for further introspection. There was nothing left to discover inside. Other people might be like houses divided against themselves, and would fall, but not Joe Baker. He hadn't changed in twenty years and he wasn't about to start changing now. If it really was over with Patty ( and that would be her decision, not his. If it had been up to him, it never would have come to this) then he'd just have to accept the fact and go on. He didn't really think it was, though. The miracle of transformation she was expecting was not something she could realistically expect to happen. Joe, for one, didn't believe in such things. No one ever really changes, he thought, and as time went on he felt his own case proved the point. A person only becomes who they are, only more so, if anything.

No doubt Patty was going through some kind of changes, but Joe was convinved it was only like a phase, that she'd come out of it soon enough, and then life would return to normal, to the way it had been, the way it should be. She just needed time, and he would give it to her. Patience was perhaps the one thing he truly had to offer. He was content to wait it out as long as it took. Certainly there was, and would be, no other woman in his life. He'd only recently read an article somewhere about women who re-enter to workforce after raising children. When they go back to work, they're afraid their husbands will reject them, so often they do the rejecting in advance, like a pre-emptive strike. Maybe that's what Patty was doing. She was treating him like she was afraid he was going to treat her.

Maybe, maybe not. In any case, the parcel from the So So Bakery was a pathetic mess. This week, along with some scattered bills and receipts, they'd sent an assortment of chewing gum wrappers, ticket stubs to a movie, two paper clips, a cartoon from wednesday's Times, several pieces of scrap paper, a yellow page from the yellow pages on the subject of moving vans, an ad from FedCorTron, and what appeared to be fingernail clippings. Joe threw all this stuff into the trash, and sighed. The report was impossible. Nothing seemed to work out. All of the information they had sent was incoherent, useless. And it was obvious that they'd left a lot out. No matter what he tried, Joe just couldn't make any sense of it. According to his best efforts, the bakery was losing quite a bit of money. No doubt most of the receipts were missing, perhaps tossed in a dumpster somewhere. Joe made up his mind to advise his boss to terminate the contract. It wasn't often that he did such a thing, and never without a very good reason, but this account had become ridiculousThe So So people didn't take it seriously enough. When he called to request more data, they either laughed or hung up on him.

- You got it all, they'd say. We sent everything. Nothing else around here. No more papers.

- But there's a lot missing, Joe would say. It must be there somewhere.

- Look, mac, they'd say. You got everything. We hire you to take care of it, so you take care of it.

Yes, they hired him, but he was going to fire them, if Mo agreed, which he probably would. Mo had no use for jokers or troublesome clients. Bookkeeping was a strait-forward business. Everything should be simple and direct. Joe gave up on So So for the day. He stuffed all of the allegedly relevant papers back into the manila envelope and put it back in his desk. I swear I don't know how they stay in business, he thought. They're so irrational, so disorganized, so stupid. They can't last long, he decided. The future belongs to the efficient. He put them out of his mind and prepared to move on to the next task at hand, but it was later than he thought. He'd spend too much time trying to figure out the So So's, and it was almost time for lunch.

- Damn! he said aloud.

He hated to fall behind schedule. It threw everything off. Now he was positive that the So So account had to go. He couldn't afford to waste his time on them. Mo would agree, if he put it that way. To Mo, wasting time was a capitol offense, to be punished by instant retirement.

Joe sat there wondering whether he should go on to the next account and then go to lunch later, or go to lunch first. There were good reasons for both courses, and he couldn't make up his mind. Just then Bill came by, and shrugged.

- Hi, Joe, he said.

- Hi Bill. How's it going?

- Same as ever, he said. How about joining me for lunch?

- Okay, Joe heard himself saying. Why not?

He got up and the two of them left the office together. One reason that Joe got along with Bill, and Harry for the same reason, was that both of them were shorter than him. Height alone gave him a feeling of confidence around them. They went to the Burger Joint, as always, and got their food. They'd said almost nothing along the way, but walked and then waited in line in silence. It was only when they sat down and unwrapped their burgers that it was time to talk.

- So, how's it going? Bill asked.

- Not bad, said Joe. Not bad at all.

- Really? Bill didn't believe him. It's hard. Especially at first.

- It's not so hard, Joe said.

He took a big bite out of his burger. Bill shrugged, and said,

- When my Irene left me, I just about broke down, you know? I didn't think I could go on living. She took the kids, you know, just pakced Ôem all up and took off. I still don't know where the hell they are.

- Uh huh, Joe said while concentrating on his food - he'd heard this tale before.

- She left me a note, Bill said. Said she couldn't take it anymore. She said our life had gotten stale, wasn't fun anymore. SHe didn;t love me anymore, she said, said she doubted that she ever really did. Said marrying me was the biggest mistake she ever made. That was it. Never heard from her again.

- That's tough, Joe said.

- So I know how it is, said Bill. You can talk to me about it, if you want.

- It's not like that, Joe said. It's only temporary. Patty just needs some time to get used to her new job and everything.

- How much time?

- I don't know, Joe said. As long as she needs. It's only been a couple of weeks so far.

- More than a year and a half for me, said Bill. At first I thought it wouldn't last long. I was sure she'd change her mind and come on home. I guess she didn't.

- This is different, said Joe.

Bill shrugged. Joe was never sure what that gesture was supposed to mean. He used it for every occasion. He shrugged hello, shrugged goodbye, shrugged okay and I dunno and everything. Joe tried to take it in context, but he could never be sure. Bill was such a strange man. At one time he'd been something of a comedian, always joking, making bad puns, odd quips, going for the laugh. Until Irene left him he'd spent his whole life trying to make people laugh, but he wasn't funny anymore. Now he didn't give a damn. He no longer laughed himself. The most he could do now was shrug.

- You know, he said. Until she left me it never occurred to me that such a thing could happen. I mean, it never crossed my mind. When she did, I dind't even know what hit me. It was right out of the blue.Incredible. Tell me, did you ever think that you and Patty would ever break up?

- No, Joe admitted. I never did.

- You see? Bill said. It's weird. You never can tell what's going to happen next. I mean, you can't count on anything in this world. Nothing stands still.

- Oh, I don't know about that, Joe said.

- It's triue, said Bill. ANything can happen. I mean, one minute I'm a husband and father of two, and the next it's like I never was, just like that.

- The important thing is to keep going, Joe said. Be yourself.

- I don't see why that's so all important, Bill said. I mean, it doesn't really matter, does it?

- Not really, said Joe.

- You see? Bill shrugged. I don't know. I mean, I'm not even trying, you know? I don't give a damn what happens to me. I know I'm going to live and then I'm going to die, and it's all so stupid because it doesn't even matter.

- You know, Joe said. If nothing matters than it doesn't matter if it doesn't matter. That's not the point.

- Then what is the point?

- I don't know, Joe said, and he shrugged.

Bill was startled for a moment to see someone else use his gesture. The finsihed up their lunch and headed back to the office. Bill said he hoped things would work out better for Joe than they had for him.

- Anytime you want to talk about it, Bill offerred.

Joe assured him that it wouldn't be necessary. He didn't need and didn't want to talk about it. He knew he'd have to go through the same kind of thing later on when the boys came over for poker. They'd be all well-meaning and everything, and would ask him a lot of questions that he couldn't or wouldn't answer, questions about how he felt ( how the hell do you think I feel?), about what he thought (what do you think?), about what he was planning to do: a) wait, b) get by, c) nothing. Still, they were his friends so he'd have to put up with it, but didn't they realize that he was always ready to accept whatever happend to him, whatever it was? He wasn't happy, but he wasn;t going to fall to pieces, either.

Once back in the office, Joe put the whole matter outof his mind, and got back to work. The lumber yard report was, as usual, a cinch. He mowed through the next several accounts, unaware of Betty and others talking about him, unaware of the other office noises, the air conditioning, the muzak. Nothing else existed but the work on his desk in front of him. For three hours he barely moved, and he got a lot of work done, not only catching up but also getting ahead of schedule. This pleased him. He had time, before leaving the office, to type up that memo to Mo about cancelling the bakery account. He left it on his boss' desk on his way out for the day.

He didn't bother to say goodnight to anyone. He was not in the mood for pleasantries. Bill had really annoyed him at lunch, and he was even more annoyed with himself for accepting the invitation. Bill was not Joe, and Irene was not Patty. The cases had nothing to do with each other. He was damned if he was going to end up like Bill, alwats whining, always regretting. Bill was weak. A house divided against itself. He couldn't stand up to fate, and Joe didn't respect him. If it really was all over between Patty and himself he sure wasn't going to act like that. Anyway, it wasn't over, it was nothing like that. They were just apart for a little while. It was like a seventh-inning stretch, or halftime, or just a long time out. Before you knew it, they'd be back together again. It irritated him that Bill actually seemed happy that his marriage was in trouble, that Joe would end up in the same condition as him. Well, that was never going to happen.

Joe wasn't going to let his entire personality fall apart like Bill had. No sir. He'd go on, just like before, and not change, because he was satisfied with who he was, and that's what really mattered. As loing as you can get along with yourself, you can get by. His life was exactly what he'd made it, precisely what he wanted it to be. Ever since he realized he didn't have the voice or the personality to be a radio newsman, he'd made his decision. If he couldn't be the one to tell everyone else the news, at least he'd keep up with it for himself. It was his one indulgence. Everything else he did for other people. The money he made was for Patty and Mark. The work he did was for his boss and his clients. But the news - he kept current with events so he wouldn't get lost, so he'd know where the world was and where it was going. That knowledge reassured him.

As long as there was news, he'd know that he belonged. It was the one essential ingredient in his life. He couldn't live without it. Take away The Times, take away Don Summons, take away the TV news, and he'd be in trouble. He'd lose his footing, his sense of place. But take away his wife and his son, he'd still know who and where he was. Take away his friends, ( and wasn't he going to lose them anyway if this kept up? Which were really his, and which were hers, and which were friends of Ôthe couple'?), take away his job ( no chance of that ), and he'd get by. Even if he had nothing to do but sit in some tiny apartment somewhere, watching TV and reading The Times and Newsbeat, he would endure, and he wouldn't really change. He'd just become even more so. He knew this because, as a child of twelve, he'd firmly believed that he was destined to live most of his life alone, and so he'd gone about learning how to do just that. And even though he was out of practice after all these years, it was coming back to him now. The crucial thing was, of course, to accept it, and not to fight a battle you can't win.

Chapter fourteen

After a few months, things had settled down somewhat, and Joe's life had resolved itself into a new routine. The Desert Arms was a pretty comfortable place, with its red-carpeted hallways, its brown and gold wallpaper, the neighbors who were neither too queit nor too noisy. Walking down the hall, in the evenings after work, he could hear the reassuring sound of outher people's television sets. He wasn't really alone. He'd become almost friendly with the cashier in the cafeteria in the lobby - they smiled and said hello and goodbye, and she never made him feel silly about eating and doing the same things every day. In fact, she was a regular person herself. She told him that she liked things to be predictable, with the world so confusing as it is and all.

He still hadn't learned to cook, but he'd cut back on dinners, preferring now to have soup and sandwiches at night, and a chocolate bar later if he was still hungry. It was easy to make, and cheap, too, and it was either that or cut down on breakfast, which he couldn't imagine doing. Breakfast is the most important meal. In the early morning you are most in need, and vulnerable to pernicious influences. If you don't take care, you could become infected with a bad attitude that could last all morning long, even all day. Over the years he'd perfected his mood protection routine, and breakfast with The Times was an essential part of the program.

Nowadays when he awoke it was without that feeling of astonishment. Now he knew where he was, and the room had become familiar. He even smiled his special smile on occasion, as the alarm clock rescued him from the real of nonbeing. He missed Patty a lot, but morning was not the time he thought about her. If he did that, he might become sad, and that would lead to being irritable and grumpy and he wouldn't be able to make it go away. So he thought about her later, in the evening. Sometimes he'd look up from his Newsbeat magazine, and she wouldn't be there doing the crossword puzzle, and he'd feel a pang of loss, and wonder what sdhe was doing at that moment. They had talked on the phone, two or three times; stilted conversations full of long silences and simultaneous interruptions. He hadn't found very much to say. She was fine. He was fine. He missed her. She missed him. She still needed more time.

He gave her time, as much as she needed. He could afford to. After all, there was nothing unexpected in his future, it was an open book as far as he was concerned. He'd still be ready to go back even if it wasn't for another year. He told her that. She told him that he should Ôget out there and try something new for a change'. He was surprised that she didn't seem to know him any better than that. He had no desire for anything new at all, as long as he was still living, still working, still reading The Times over breakfast and watching the TV news at night. He did, however, do one new thing, if you could call it new. He told himself that it wasn't, really. He bought one of those little radios with the tiny headphones, so he could listen to Don Summons on his way to work.

He still felt a bit silly about it. After all, it looked funny, but he decided that he didn't care how he looked. I mean, doesn't it look even more stupid to see all those people sitting in their cars, stuck in a traffic jam? Don't they feel silly, and isn't that why they get upset? He got used to it. And he was glad he'd done it, because now he knew that he shouldn;t support Morgan, that even Harper, bad as he was, was better than having a rabid madman in the White House. Yet he, along with Don Summons, hoped that someone else would come along. And he also came to believe - Don Summons had explained it so clearly - that it really was a good idea to abolish NASA because we already have enough problems here on Earth, so why should we waste scarce public funds shooting rockets into the void? The money was better spent on the destitute; even though throwing more money at problems didn't solve them, it was better to make sure that poor people had food so they wouldn't riot and burn down more innocent buildings, like what happened in Detroit. And here was Morgan, with his Ôlet them eat toast' and his Ôturn the schools into prisons' and who could reasonably support a man like that?

True, Harper was doing terrible things in the realm of foreign affairs, but there was always the chance he'd learn, or hire someone better to deal with things. And Morgan's only foreign policy was have a war and see what happens. Don Summons was the voice of reason and moderation, and his return into Joe's life had a calming effect on the latter. Joe felt that he could go on like this indefinitely, even though he missed his wife, his kid, his house. It was all a valuable lesson, and he was almost glad she'd done it. Now he knew. He really could take care of himself.

The world was busy as usual. Acid Reign was let off the hook, the judge being sympathetic to the concepts of metaphor and symbolism. At the same time, however, R.C. Cola was arrested on suspicion of tax fraud. Mr. Cola was furious and vehemently denied the charges. The reporter for The Times mentioned that he'd never seen Mr. Cola so Ôcarbonated' before. Along with the tax fraud, various other incidents came rapidly bubbling to the surface. Things didn't look too good for the Cola Cult, or the ÔCola Nuts', as they were usually called. It didn't help that Acid Reign came to the defense of his colleague, or that he called on the people of Cleveland to storm City Hall and take over the government. R.C. Cola had to go on the air and tell them not to.

There was a massacre in Idaho: gangland style, of course, in the tradition of massacres. Police said there were no leads, no clues, no witnesses. Most people in Idaho assumed the police had done the job. A jet plane had crashed in Boston: forty seven dead, one hundred and twelve wounded, damages estimated in the millions. The burglary rate in Jamestown was on the increase. Twelve percent more burglaries were reported in August than in any month since the previous May. The mayor said it was Ôan outrage'. Tough new laws were proposed, including mandatory jail for burglars who used guns. With any luck, they'd go to jail no matter what they used. A doctor had been shot and killed when he'd come home and surprised a burglar in his house. It was a tragic loss. The doctor had written a popular book about type Ôa' personalities and sexual deviance. Joe remembered that Patty had read it.

Sexual deviance reminded him of sex. It had been a month without it. Usually he and Patty had Ôdone it' about twice a week, and now he'd gone four weeks without Ôdoing it' at all. He tried not to think about it. Although it presented a problem for the long-term future, he didn't think it would come to that. Any day now Patty would call and tell him to come home, and maybe they'd make up for all that lost sex. So it was nothing to worry about. There was one thing that bothered him - he'd begun to dream. He couldn't remember ever dreaming before in his life, and he didn;t like them, and wished they would stop.

The first one was very strange and it stuck to him in detail. In it he was walking down a city street with a friend. It wasn't Harry or Bob or Grant or even Bill or anyone he knew. He didn't even see the man's face, but he was at ease with him. They were talking about the championship series - the Jammers versus the Beavers - which hadn't even started yet. Anyway, they were going to the movies and they passed by a construction site. There was the typical wood frame underpass on the sidewalk, and they walked through it, but when they peered through the holes into the site they could see that the ground hadn't been dug up yet.. This was off, because when they emerged they looked up and saw men working on the top floor - and there weren't any lower floors! The top floor (undoubtedly labelled fourteen) seemed to be held up in the air by long, light purple, nylon cords, which dangled slightly above the ground. Joe remembered the other man say, Ò there's no support!Ó.

What frightened him most was how different he was in the dream. He was not the Joe Baker he knew so well. This Joe Baker was fond of telling bad jokes and laughing at inappropriate times. This Joe Baker did silly things that the real Joe would wake up feeling ashamed of. This Joe Baker was almost always all alone - even when he was with other people - as if he was a ghost. This Joe Baker looked at women's butts as they walked in front of him on the street. The other Joe thought about sex a lot.

The worst part was having to remember the dreams. They stayed with him throughout his morning bathroom routine. Not even a hotter shower helped to banish them. At least they went away by breakfast. But sometimes they'd come back to him, later on, at night, when he climbed into bed, and he'd be forced to go through them again, all the time thinking, this isn't real, it isn't me. He knew he couldn't speak japanese, or own a department store, or wrestle with a gorilla, or fight off angry starving dogs, or hijack a taxi, or go to jail for corrupting the morals of a minor. He knew he wasn't an arsonist, or a car wash attendant, or anything else he was in the dreams. He was Joe Baker, bookkeeper, human being, infoman. There was nothing wrong with that. He began to feel that maybe sleep was even worse than death, because of the ways it changes you.

But he felt that eventually, if it kept on that way, he'd be able to incorporate the dreams into his regular schedule. Certainly he had no control over them. He'd never been one to resist what he had no power to overcome. And in the end, everything falls into place. Over the years he'd managed to accomodate many new elements in his life without too much trouble. Patty, for one, and Mark, for another. It's not so important what the usual is, as long as it is the usual, as long as it can be relied on to recur at regular and predictable intervals. For instance, he used to prefer his eggs scrambled, and now he liked them fried, over easy. The essential thing was eggs for breakfast.

Joe was not afraid of change. What he feared was instability, and he was never going to let it happen to him, no matter what. So he did his best to adapt to his new and hopefully temporary situation. It wasn't that hard. Already the orange curtains and brown walls in his new place were as familiar as the white curtains and canary yellow walls in his own bedroom. Work was the same as ever. He never let his worries interfere with his productivity. He paid no attention to the office gossip, and he succeeded, for the most part, in avoiding Bill and ignoring his tired litany. He was seeing less of Harry lately, and it'd been more than two weeks since the guys had all gotten together. But that was no problem. It happened every now and then.

He resubscribed to Newsbeat, giving his new address, but not cancelling the other order. He didn't want to deprive Patty of information. She needed it as much as he did, maybe more. Dinner became his second favorite meal, surpassing lunch, because of the pride he took in preparing it for himself. True, it was only soup and a sandwich, but he made them with his own hands, with his own new can opener and knife. He had a little folding table so he could eat and watch the local news at the same time. This was a new convenience for him. Before he'd always had to worry about dinner not being finished in time. Now he watched both the local and the national news straight through.

He still brought The Times home with him, open to the crossword puzzle page. He'd stopped doing the puzzles a long time ago - recently he'd only contributed at Patty's requests, when she got stuck and couldn't think of the word. Now, whenever he had no other news to catch up on, and there was nothing on TV, he did the puzzle by himself. Usually he'd breeze along for awhile, and then he'd come up against something he didn't know. Involuntarily, he'd turn his head to the right as if to ask PAtty if she knew, only to find that she wasn't there. A feeling of sadness would well up inside him for a moment, but then he'd just skip it and go on to the next hint. Unlike Patty, he did the acrosses first, and then the downs.

He almost stopped missing her at night, in bed. He usually fell asleep right off as soon as he got in. And then there'd be nothing, unless he dreamed, until he woke up in the morning, relieved to be himself again, and it was time to begin the day all over again. The worst times were the weekends. Last sunday there had been no pancakes. He'd skipped breakfast entirely and got back into bed with The Sunday Times. He read every single word in the paper that day, every classified, each cartoon, even the ones he hated. He'd read the financial pages, the list of stock market closings. He'd read all the ads, including the glossy FedCorTron insert. He read every little bit of the news, but all that didn't take him long enough.

He had no plans that day. He wasn't going to see any of his friends. He had no lawn to mow, nothing around the house to try and fix. He had no books to read, no magazines or anything. He ended up spending the entire afternoon drinking beer and watching football on TV. After several hours he realized that his attention had been wandering. He wasn't paying attention anymore. He kept spacing out and going blank for long stretches of time, but he didn't turn it off and he didn't go outside. He didn't want to think about anything at all. He would not admit he wasn't happy. He would not admit that he was worried. He was convinced that he was only waiting, and that sometimes waiting isn't easy or fun, and that it was all partof the price he was paying, nothing more. Any minute now the phone would ring and it would be Patty, saying, ÔI'm sorry, please come home'. And he would, without a moment's hesitation.

He dozed off at about ten o'clock. The room was dark but for the flashing glow of the tube. It was silent except for the patter of the re-play-by-play. He didn't dream that night, and he was thrilled to wake up and realize it was monday morning.

A book lay beside her on the bed, one sunday night, as Patty smoked another cigarette. She'd been smoking more lately, too much, really. It was one of those books she could easily put down, one she wondered why she was even reading at all. At first glance it was the kind of book she had always despised, but she'd checked it out from the library anyway, with a vague thought of widening her tolerance horizons. So now she was making her half-hearted way through it. The picutre on the back cover was bad enough - a young woman, no older than twenty five, smiling, a brown curl handing over her wide open eyes. There was a solid gold chain around her neck.

Betty Greer, the blurb said, teaches english at Essex College, in Wetford. She has a two year old daughter and a Saint Bernard. Her husband, Bob Greer, is a certified public accountant. So what? Who cares? Big deal. Patty hand't heard of or cared about Betty Greer before she got the book, and now she cared less and wished she hadn't heard of her. The title, one of the worst she'd ever come across, was the reason she'd taken it home. It was ÔNew and Improved'. Who wouldn't hate a title like that? Inside the front jacket, some anonymous person praised Betty's Òcommand of the languageÓ (language, ready! language, aim! language, fire!), and her Ògrasp of the essential human emotionsÓ ( as opposed to the inessential ones, the ones that only came with the extra value pack).

It was a novel, a thinly disguised autobiographical one. The main character was named Betsy (very very thinly disguised), and her husband was affectionately called Robby. She had a three year old son, and a German Shepherd, and she taught english at Wessex College, in Dryford. It was all about how much better Betsy's life had become after her first husband, Larry, had died in a car accident. Oh, she'd been happy before, but there was something missing in her life, some element of adventure, of romance, that she hadn't even known was lacking. If Larry hadn't died, she would have been content to go on living her boring, humdrum life forever. But then Jack, that heaven sent drunk driver, had come careening along doing over eighty and smashed head on into Larry's precious Mustang. D.O.A.. Dead instantly, in fact. She was glad of that, she told us. At least he'd felt no pain, as if she knew. Maybe he felt all the pain in the world compressed into one incredibly torturous moment.

Betsy's world fell apart. Patty barely managed to make it through the chapter on valium addiction. It was hard to feel sorry for this woman, especially considering her poor taste in titles. You already knew that everything was going to work out fine in the end, better than before. So it was impossible to take her seriously when she said she'd given up hope, that for her there were no tomorrows. Patty wanted to scream, what are you talking about? Just look at chapter ten! Patty had put the book down countless times by then, and she was not even a third of the way through. Larry's mother was an unsympathetic bitch who blamed it all on Betsy - how unfair! Her father confided that he'd never much liked her dead husband - what a thing to say! She began to think she was a worhtless person. Patty thought, well, a worhless writer at least.

It got worse. Robby came along - she met him at a widow and widower group, a Ômourn the dead and find a new lover' seminar - and he was perfect. He was handsome, exciting, romantice, and, you guessed it, adventurous, whatever that meant. He was terrific in bed, and even knew how to cook. He hit it off right away with her son, and the feeling was mutual. It seemed as if the world was suddenly a beautiful place again. There was only the guilt to bother her, the guilt at being glad that Larry was dead. But Robby understood - he was glad his wife was dead too - and she got overit in time. Eventually she didn't feel guilty to say that her life really was Ônew and improved'.

Well, good for you, Patty thought. Aren't you the lucky one. But she didn't understand why the woman thought this story was worth telling. Why a book? Why a phony novel? Was it supposed to make other people hopeful, or envious? Was it the final working out of that guilt she talked so much about? Did her husband make her write it? Was it for the money? Could she write a book about anything else, or was this it? Does she consider this to be her life's work? Will she treasure it forever? Does she talk about it all the time? Patty was curious to know whether this woman really was as vain, as shallow, as self-centered and as self-serving as she seemed. Clearly, this was another bad novel, as Flannery O'Connor once said, that could have been prevented by a good teacher.

She smoked her cigarette and thought, maybe I'm just resentful, is that it? My life was boring, just like hers, only hers got better and mine hasn't. I'm just jealous, or am I? Her life revolves around a man - she's happy with one, and when she loses him, she falls apart, and can't get herself back together until she finds another one. Thank God I'm not like that. And thank God I don't feel like I should tell my story to the world as if the world needs to hear it. Everyone has their own story. She could never understand the writer's drive to tell their own. And yet she didn't criticize herself this way. She was continuing to crank out her columns as if anybody really cared about what she had to say about this or that or anything. Who the hell did she think she was, anyway? How come she had the right to sound off, the same right she denied to others, like this Betty or Betsy or whatever it was.

The new job was okay. It wasn't as exciting as she'd imagine \d it would be. Mostly she did proofreading, checking for misspellings and non-sequiters. She made sure the articles soudned right, that they were clear and easy to understand. AAnd then her boss went over her work, and corrected what she missed. She was good at it, butit was really just a desk job. She sat there all day reading and re-reading until she got a headache. She had no trouble getitng along with her co-workers. She'd known them all already, but the Gazette wasn't exactly a fun place to work. None of them were really her friends. There was nothing much to talk about with them except the usual - the news, the job, the kids, the weather. It hadn't taken long until she'd settled down into a routine. It seemed like every day was just like the one before, with only minor variations.

By the time she got home at night, Mark was hungry, so she had to make dinner. Later she'd watch the news on television, and then do the crossword puzzle in The Times. When a magazine arrived, she'd read it, and when there wasn't one, and there was nothing good on TV, she'd go upstairs and read in bed. It seemed like a long time since she'd read anything good. It was all the same to her, whether it was happy reborn women or vicious sadistic mass murderers, or other such ordinary people living out or failing to live out their fantasies. But Patty had no fantasies. She'd only wanted things to be different for a change, and they were. She spent the day in an office instead of in the living room. And in the evenings, Joe was not around. Aside from that, nothing much had changed, and she really didn't want it to. She wondered why she was doing this to Joe, and to herself. After all, she'd had no reason to complain.

It dawned on her that even though she hadn't been ecstatically happy before, still she hadn't been terribly depressed either, and it occurred to her that maybe being ecstatically happy wasn't what she wanted at all, and she knew this was true. True ecstasy, true excitement, is something that by definition should be rare, a sudden and occasional experience. We've all been taught to believe that without such excitement our lives are drab and dull, and we've fallen for it. We measure out lives against the stars - the fake ones, since the real ones hardly every do anything exciting at all. Supernovas are rather rare, and take millions of years or preparation. She felt a little foolish. She was supposed to be so smart, right? Yet she'd really thought that her life would change, just like that, it would all be new and improved, and it hadn't sunk in yet that she didn't really want that to happen.

Things are different all the time. No day is exactly like the one before. It's the little things that change, the details, not the big things, and that's how it should be. The ritual of dinner every night is the same, but the food is different. The weather is not the same as it was last week - it's almost winter now. The news is different every day, isn't it? Well, maybe not really, maybe the same old cliches do generate themselves spontaneously, as someone said. The point is, Patty thought, the point is ... that I was dumb and I did a stupid thing. I dind't understand. I was wrong. I don't want my life to be totally different. I don't want any major drastic changes. I just want to be myself, and that automatically limits me. I can't be anybody else. I can't live anyone else's life, or else I wouldn't be me anymore. I guess Joe understands. Maybe I should call him, and ask him to come back home.

She said that every night, but she didn't call. She was waiting to hear from him. She was afraid that he'd say, no, no thanks, I don't want to come home, I'm happy where I am. She was afraid that he'd thank her for kicking him out of the house, that it was the best thing that ever happened to him, that now it was his life that was new and improved, and the world is really beautiful after all. She knew her fears were foolish - Joe would never change, would he? He seemed to be getting along just fine without her. Maybe he didn't need her, or even want her anymore. Maybe she'd really screwed it up this time. Secretly she doped he would change, though not too much, and that's why she kept delaying. She hoped he'd have found a new interest, or that he'd learn something, and when he came home he'd be a slightly more interesting person. If only he'd be a little different, but not too much . . .

Shelit another cigarette, and turned out the light. She lay there in the darkness, smoking, watching the smoke rise and fall and hang there in the air. As her mind quieted down, and she stopped pondering and worrying, she began to hear the noises coming from Mark's room.

General Lee was rallying his men. As they gathered around, he said,

- Men! Today's the day. We're going to attack the fort!

All the troops hurrahed their support, and were ready to go at his command. They'd been waiting for days, even weeks, for this moment. It had been an arduous journey, a hazardous trek across the rugged mountains. And now they'd reached their destination, at the foot of the bed. Under its looming shadow they lined up and prepared to march on the throw rug in front of the dresser, where the enemy lay ensconced. Confederate scouts had reported that the Union enclave was in desparate straits. They were undermanned and running out of food. It was said that General Grant himself was there, but that he was losing control over his own men.

That was easy to believe. Grant was ineffectual as a leader, and even more useless as a military planner, besides being a famous drunk. He simply didn't have the head for battle. He was prone to retreating whenever the going got rough, and was apt to hit the bottle at the first sign of trouble. Lee had no respect for him. They'd met before, and every time Lee had emerged victorious. Grant's troops were pathetic, mere boys who didn't even want to fight. They had no guts. All the COnfederate soldiers said that Grant was weaker than a woman. It was rumoured that his wife used to beat him mercilessly, whcih was why he'd gone and enlisted in the first place. What kind of a man was that?

And so Lee had no doubts that the fort would be his, no sweat, and he'd take Grant prisoner too. He was full of confidence as he sounded the advance with that sort of bugle sound. His troops marched towards the fort, but the reports had been wrong, the scouts had been mistaken. The fort was well defended, over-manned if anything. There were Union troops all over the place, even outnumbering the Confederates. Their cavalry swooped out of the fort and charged as the sharp shooters gave them cover. Bang! Aah! Tatatatata! Over there! Watch out! Aaah! The battle raged on and on, complete with a thorough array of sound effects.

Lee was pretty upset. He'd expected an easy victory and instead it was beginning to look like he might even lose. How could something like this happen? He gritted his teeth and plunged into the battle. His sword swept this way and that as he single handedly mowed a path to the front gates. His troops followed his lead, and soon the battle was raging inside the fort itself. Lee looked around, but he saw no sign of Grant. He's probably hiding, he thought, that would be like him. At the first sign of danger he always runs for cover. The first to leave and the last to creep out. When I find him, Lee decided, I'll kill him.

But he didn't find him. Grant was nowhere in sight and Lee had to fight off swarming Union stoops by the score. His own men were hard-pressed, and it was clear that he was losing. It was too late to retreat. No, this had to be a fight to the finish, no holds barred, until the last man falls. Lee was amazing to behold as he flailed his sword this way and that. And with every passing moment his anger grew stronger, until he was fighting like a madman, not even noticing who he killed or what color uniform they were wearing. He no longer looked around to see how the rest of his troops were faring. It was now a personal war for him, a war between himself and General Grant. Nothing else seemed to matter anymore.

At the end he was the last rebel left alive. His sword was broken by an enemy axe, and he collapsed, all his energy spent. He was too tried to resist as they led him inside. They pushed him down into a chair, where he hung his head and gasped for air. For a long time there was utter silence in the room. And then he became aware that he was not alone. He looked up and saw Ulysses Grant sitting across the room. Grant was smiling. His uniform was spotless. He hadn't participated in the battle, that much was clear. He wasn't even sweating. He was holding out a bottle of bourbon.

- Have some, he said.

Lee shook his head. He knew then he was defeated, and he felt disgraced. To be beaten by such a man, a coward and a weakling! It was humiliating. He was the one who deserved to win. He was the one who had struggled, who had tried. This Grant had done nothing at all but sit and wait, just wait it out. And yet he'd proved to be the smarter man.

- Cigar? Grant asked.

- No, said Lee.

- I watched you outh there, Grant said. You're one hell of a man. The bestI've ever seen. Wish you were on our side.

Lee shook his head, and without knowing why he heard himself say

- I guess you're not so bad yourself.