Honored Guest

THE OTHER WEEK

“THE FIRE DEPARTMENT charged us three hundred and seventy-five dollars to relocate that snake,” Francine said.

“Must have missed that one,” Freddie said. “Fire department was here? Big red truck and everything?”

“There was a rattlesnake on the patio and I called the fire department and they had a long … it was some sort of device on a pole, and they got the snake in a box and released it somewhere and it shouldn’t have cost anything because that’s one of the services they provide to their subscribers, which is why everyone knows to call the fire department when a snake shows up on one’s patio. But we are not one of their subscribers, Freddie. I was informed of this after the fact. We have not paid their bill and their service is not included in our property taxes, which we likewise have not paid.”

“Must’ve been taking a bathe.”

“The charge is excessive, don’t you think? They were here for five minutes.”

“Why didn’t you just smack the thing with a hoe?”

“It’s very civilized of the fire department to effect live removal. Why aren’t we one of their subscribers, Freddie? If the house started to burn down, they’d respond but it would cost us twenty-five thousand dollars an hour. That’s what they told me when I called to complain.”

“House isn’t going to burn down.”

“Freddie, why aren’t you paying our bills?”

“No money,” he said.

It was October in the desert and quite still, so still that Francine could hear their aged sheltie drinking from the bidet in the pool house. He was forbidden to do this. Francine narrowed her eyes and smiled at her husband. “What happened to our money?”

“It goes, Francine. Money goes. I haven’t worked in almost three years. Surely you’ve noticed.”

“I have, yes.”

“No money coming in, and you were sick for a year. That took its toll.”

“They never figured out what that was all about,” Francine admitted.

“No insurance. Seventeen doctors. You slept eighteen hours a day. All you ate was blueberries and wheatgrass.”

“Well, that couldn’t have cost much.”

“Like a goddamn mud hen.”

“Freddie!”

“Seventeen doctors. No insurance. Car costs alone shunting you around to doctors cost more than four thousand that year, not including regular maintenance, filters, shocks and the like. Should’ve rotated the tires but I was trying to keep costs down.”

“There was something wrong with my blood or something,” Francine protested.

“Bought you a goddamned armload of coral bracelets. Supposed to be good for melancholia. Never wore them. Never gave them a chance.”

“They pinched,” Francine said.

“Even stole aspirin for you. Stole aspirin every chance I got.”

“That was very resourceful.”

“Oh, be sarcastic, see where that gets you. There’s no point in discussing it further. We’re broke.”

The sheltie limped out into the sun, sated. He barked hoarsely, then stopped. He was becoming more and more uncertain as to his duties.

Francine went to the kitchen for a glass of water. She searched the refrigerator until she found a lemon, a small shriveled one from which she had some difficulty coaxing a bit of zestful juice. The refrigerator was full of meat. Freddie did the shopping and had overfamiliarized himself with the meat department.

“Broke,” Francine said. He couldn’t be serious. They had a house, two cars. They had a gardener. She returned to the living room and sat down opposite her husband. He was wearing a white formal shirt, stained, with the linkless cuffs rolled up, black shorts and large black sunglasses. His gaze was directed toward an empty hummingbird feeder.

“It’s bats that drain that thing at night,” Freddie said. “You don’t have hummingbirds at all, Francine. You’ve got lesser long-nosed bats. They arrive in groups of six. One feeds while the others circle in an orderly fashion awaiting their turn. I enjoyed watching them of an evening. Can’t even afford sugar water for the poor bastards anymore.”

“What do you propose to do about our finances, Freddie?”

“Ride it out. Let the days roll on. You had your year of sleeping eighteen hours a day.”

“But that was a long time ago!” Once she had been the type of person who didn’t take much between drinks, as they say, but the marathon sleeping — it actually had been closer to twenty hours a day, Freddie always was a poor judge of time — had knocked the commitment to the sauce right out of her.

“Seventeen doctors. No insurance. Never found out what it was.”

“I pictured myself then very much like a particular doll I had as a little girl,” Francine mused. “She was a doll with a soft cloth body and a hard plastic head. She had blue eyes and painted curls, not real curls. The best part was that she had eyelids with black lashes of probably horsehair, and when you laid the doll on its back those hard little eyelids would roll down and dolly would be asleep. Have I ever told you that’s how I pictured myself?”

“Many, many times,” Freddie said.

Dusk arrived. A dead-bolt gold. Francine maintained an offended silence as vermilion clouds streamed westward and vanished, never again to be seen by human eyes. Freddie made drinks for them both. Then he made dinner, which they took separately. A bit less meat humming in the refrigerator now. Francine retired to the bedroom and turned on the television. The sheltie staggered in and circled his little rug for long minutes before collapsing on it with a burp. He smelled a little, poor dear.

Freddie in seersucker pajamas lay down beside her in the bed. He settled himself, then placed his hand in the vicinity of her thigh. A light blanket and a sheet separated his hand from the thigh itself. He raised his hand and slipped it beneath the blanket. But there was still the sheet. He worked his hand under the fabric until he finally got to her skin, which he patted.

They were watching a film which was vicious and self-satisfied, tedious and predictable, when in a scene that did not serve particularly to further the plot a dead actor was introduced to digitally interact with a living one.

The dead actor was acting away. “Look at that!” Francine said.

The scene didn’t last long, it was just some cleverness. The dead actor seemed awkward but professional. Still this wasn’t the scene he had contracted for. Watching, Francine knew a lot more than he did about his situation, but under the circumstances he was connecting pretty well with others.

“What are you getting so upset about?” Freddie said.

“Space and time,” she said. “Those used to be the requirements. Space and time or you couldn’t get into the nightclub. Our senses establish the conditions for the world we see. Kant said our senses were like the nightclub doorkeeper who only let people in who were sensibly dressed, and the criteria for being properly dressed or respectably dressed, whatever, was that things had to be covered up in space and time.”

“Who said this?”

“Kant.”

Freddie removed his hand from her thigh. “Something’s been lost in your translation of that one, Francine. Why does one want to get into the nightclub anyway? Or that nightclub rather than another one?”

“We’re the nightclub!” she said. “We’re each our own nightclub! And the nightclub might want other patrons. Other patrons might be absolutely necessary for the nightclub to succeed!”

“I think it’s a little late for us to be discussing Kant with such earnestness,” Freddie said.

“You mean a little this night late or a little life late?”

He nodded, meaning both.

She snatched the blanket off the bed and walked through the darkened house to the patio. It was long past the hour when people in the neighborhood used the outside. It was a big concern among Francine’s acquaintances, who were always vowing to utilize the outside more, but after a certain hour they stopped worrying about it. To many of Francine’s acquaintances, the outside was the only flagellator their consciences would ever know.

She wrapped herself in the blanket and lay on the chaise longue. She was very uncomfortable. When she lay on it in the daytime she was not at all uncomfortable. Finally she managed to wander into sleep, a condition for which she was losing her knack. When she woke it was glaring day and the gardener’s face was hanging over hers. His name was Dennis, Dennis the gardener who had been in their employ for years. She had never been stared at so thoroughly. She frowned and he drew back and stood behind her. He placed his fingers lightly on her forehead and ran them down her neck, then dragged them up again and rubbed her temples. The day was all around her. The refulgent day, she thought. His hand floated to just above her collarbone and she felt an excruciating pain as his thumb dug into the tendon there and scoured it. She screamed and struggled upright.

“That shouldn’t hurt,” he said mildly. “It’s because you’re so tense.”

She hurried into the house and quickly dressed. There was no coffee. She required coffee, and there was none. The house was silent. Both Freddie and the sheltie were gone. He sometimes took the dog for a walk, which Francine had thought was kind before she learned that their destination was usually a small park on a dry riverbed frequented by emaciated and tactically brilliant coyotes. There had been several instances when a coyote had materialized and carried off some pet absorbed in peeing, frolicking or quarreling with its own kind and thus inattentive to personal safety. Francine had accused Freddie of being irresponsible, but he insisted that attacks were rare. More important was the possibility of attack, which gave distinction to an otherwise vapid suburban experience and provided a coherence and camaraderie among a group of people who socially, politically and economically had little in common. They were a fine bunch of people, Freddie assured her, and they shared a considerable pool of knowledge regarding various canine personality problems — fear biting, abandonment issues and hallucinations among them — as well as such physical disorders as mange, anal impaction, seizures and incontinence, to name only a few.

Francine searched hopelessly for coffee. Outside, Dennis had scooped up a large snake between the tines of a rake and was dropping it over the wall that separated their lot from the Benchleys’. It looked quite like the snake the fire department had recently removed. Dennis was being helpful but she would have to dismiss him. He would simply have to retreat to his life’s ambition, which he had once told her was to run a security cactus ranch. There he would cultivate hybrids specific to sites, creating fast-growing, murderously flowering walls with giant devil’s-claw spines that could scoop an intruder’s throat out in a heartbeat.

She went outside. “Dennis,” she began.

He turned toward her, not a young man. He had deep lines in his narrow face, running from his eyes to the corners of his mouth. They were not unattractive. If a woman dared to have lines like that she would naturally be considered freakish.

“Rattlesnakes don’t have anyplace to go anymore,” Dennis said.

The snake, deposited in a flower bed maintained by the Benchleys at a cost of great aggravation, set off in the direction of a large rock Francine knew to be fraudulent. It weighed little more than an egg carton and concealed a spare house key for the maid.

“Dennis, I’m afraid we must terminate your services. We haven’t the money to pay you.”

Dennis shrugged. “Nobody’s paid me for coming on a year.”

“Freddie hasn’t been paying you?”

“Told me six months ago you didn’t have any money. I come here because you remind me of Darla. When I first saw you I said to myself, Why, she’s the spit and image of Darla, taking the years into account.”

“‘Spitting image,’” Francine said. “What on earth does that mean?”

“I’ll talk any way you want to talk. You want me to talk less formal? I’m just so happy we’re talking at last, like the more than friends we were meant to be.”

“This is of no interest to me, but who is Darla?”

“Darla was my nanny when I was eight years old. She was ten years older than me.”

Francine was shocked. A nanny! Though she did not want to believe herself a snob.

“Darla liked snakes.”

“I don’t like—”

“She had lots of stories about snakes. She told me, for instance, that the Mayans practiced frontal deplanation in newborn children so their heads would look like a rattlesnake’s head. They bound up the newborn’s soft little skull with weights. They believed snakes were sacred and that people with rattlesnake skulls would be more intelligent and creative. This had a positive, motivating psychological force on them. They became freer, more aware, bright and unusual. And I remember saying to Darla when she told me this that I wish someone had had the imagination and foresight to do that to me when I was first born because I wouldn’t mind having a deeply ridged, crenellated head. And Darla said it was too bad but knowing my parents, which of course she did very well, it would never have happened were they given the opportunity for a thousand years, they still wouldn’t have done it. They were very conservative. Not like Darla. Darla could leap up as high as her own shoulders from a standing position. Darla rocked! We lived in St. Louis, and once a year Darla and I would come out here to the desert, each spring for three years, and spend a week at a dude ranch and shoot bottles and ride mules and sleep in bunk beds. The corral is where Galore is now.”

“Is that a new town?”

“Barbeques Galore is there.”

“Oh,” Francine said. She found this quite funny but decided to say in her most gracious manner, “Change can be quite overwhelming at times.”

“That’s right, that’s right,” Dennis said. “And then we’d come back to St. Louis and Darla would go off on another week of vacation but without me, and as you might imagine I resented that other week very much because I loved Darla. And then Darla had to have an operation.”

“Wait,” Francine said. “An operation?”

Dennis nodded. “She had to go under the anesthesia. And when a person goes under the anesthesia they’re never the same when they come back up. You’ve got another person you’re dealing with then. It makes just the smallest difference, but it’s permanent. The change only happens once. That is, you might have to go under the anesthesia again for one reason or another and there’d be no change. Change don’t build on that first change.”

Why did she have to have an operation? Francine wondered.

“I was never told why she had to have an operation,” Dennis said, “so that’s not important.”

She shouldn’t have been jumping as high as her own shoulders, perhaps, Francine thought.

“We still talked about snakes and made pineapple upside-down cake and swam and rode bicycles and I was still in love with her and then she took her other week again, which I begrudged her as usual, and when she came back she died.”

“I’ll be darned!” Francine exclaimed. She really was trying to follow this unformed history. It would cost her nothing to be polite. They owed him money and he had done a good job with the citrus. Not a remarkable job, but a good one. Also, he was a human being who had suffered a loss, even if that loss had been by her estimation almost thirty years ago. The shock had clearly addled him. It must have come exactly at the wrong time. A moment either side of it and he would have been perfectly all right. She hoped they hadn’t had an open casket.

“My parents permitted me to put a piece of broken glass in the coffin because Darla and I collected pieces of broken glass. It was one of the many collections we maintained. My parents didn’t want there to be any confusion in my mind. They wanted me to realize that this time Darla was gone for good. Still, I had difficulty with the concept. It was a little beyond me.”

“An open casket can sometimes backfire,” Francine said.

“What?”

Darla sounded like a good-hearted girl, energetic, inventive, a nice kid, called too soon from life’s parade or banquet, whatever it was. She couldn’t imagine anyone being further from the idea of Darla than herself.

“I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t found you,” Dennis said.

“You haven’t found me!” Francine said, alarmed.

“I’m not saying you are Darla, jeesh, I’m not crazy. I’m just wondering if you wouldn’t like to go out some night and talk like we used to.”

“I was never Darla.”

“Jeesh,” Dennis said. “I’m not saying you were Darla and now you’re just not, I’m not crazy. But I was thinking we’d go out in the desert and build a little fire. Darla loved those fires so! I could bring the wood we’d need to get it started in the motorcycle’s saddlebags. In less than fifty miles we could be in the desert. Fat Boy could get us there in an hour.”

“We are in the desert.”

“You know they don’t know what this is now where we are.”

He was missing a tooth, far back, it was way back, only noticeable in the way that hardly noticeable things are.

“You’ve seen my Harley. Haven’t you just wanted to climb on Fat Boy and go? That bike gets so many compliments. If I ever wanted to sell, the ad would read consistent compliments, but I’ll never sell. Or maybe you’d want to go somewhere else. I’ll take you anywhere you want. I got another pair of jeans, newer jeans. What? My hearing’s not so good. After Darla died I stuck knives in my ears. You know how they say you shouldn’t put anything smaller than your elbow in your ear? It was in honor of Darla because I loved her voice so and never wanted to hear another’s. I probably hear better than I should but I miss some of the mumble. You were mumbling there, not making yourself clear.”

“The only place I’m going now, Dennis, is inside my home. I don’t feel well.”

“You don’t look as good as you do sometimes. You got a headache? Darla used to have the cruelest headaches. I’d soak cloths in cool vinegar and put them on her head.”

She probably had tumors the size of goose eggs in that head, Francine thought. Any operation was bound to be futile.

“OK, you go on inside,” Dennis said. “Close the blinds. Put on this music I’m going to give you. Put this in your tape player. Take whatever’s in there and throw it away. You’ll never care for it again.” He unbuttoned the pocket of his denim shirt and removed a plastic Baggie containing a tape. “It’s Darla playing the piano. It was in the lodge at the dude ranch right where Galore is, as I’ve told you. We didn’t have a piano in St. Louis. This is pure Darla. She was so talented! When you hear this you’ll recognize everything for the first time.”

“Music can’t do that.”

“It can’t?” He pressed the tape into her hand. “Since when?”

There was still no coffee. She wasn’t going to waste her time looking for coffee when there wasn’t any. A moth was floating in the sheltie’s water bowl. This was one of those recurrent things. She went into the bedroom and lay on the unmade bed. She wanted to sleep. She could no longer fall asleep! Insomnia, of course, was far worse than just being awake. She thought longingly of those two stages — the hypnagogic and the hypnapompic, although she could never declare with confidence which was which once she’d been informed of their existence — on either side of sleep, the going into and the coming out when the conscious and the subconscious were shifting dominance, when for an instant the minds were in perfect balance, neither holding dominion. But she couldn’t sleep, she lacked her escorts, the hypnapompic and the hypnagogic — who had of late been acting more like unfriendly guards.

The sun was slipping into the afternoon, exposing the dirtiness of the windows, which she never cleaned in the hope of dissuading doves from crashing into the glass. The doves flew undissuaded. The many blurred impressions of their dove bodies depressed her but she was convinced that sparkling windows would be even more inviting to them as they attempted to thread their way among the houses in their evening plunge from the foothills to the valley below.

She had removed the tape from the dusty little bag and played it. It was a formal exercise — familiar, pleasant, ordinary playing. It didn’t cast a spell or create a mood. It was not the kind of music that tore hungrily at her. It did not appeal to her at all. Much of the tape was empty of all but hum and hiss. The playing had simply stopped and had not resumed again. There was no applause, no exclamations of approval, no sense of an audience being present, least of all an impressionable child. Darla had certainly taken that kid for a ride. Had she confounded everyone she met in her brief life or only him? Probably him alone. She didn’t think Dennis even knew this Darla very well, not really. He had a collection of queer memories — a girl leaping in place to what avail — of no more value than bits of broken glass. He had nothing. Darla inhabited his world more than he did, for she infused it, doing what the dead would like to do but in most cases couldn’t, which in Francine’s opinion was a very good thing. As far as she was concerned, though, Darla, her quenched double, was a disappointment.

She played the tape again and it sounded even less interesting than before and briefer as well. She didn’t know what was missing, it had just become, was becoming, more compressed. She began to play it once more, then thought better of it. She ejected it from the machine and put it back in the Baggie. Locating a pencil, she tore an envelope in half — another unpaid bill! — and wrote:

Dear Dennis. We appreciate the work

you’ve done. Good luck in raising

security cactus! Good-bye and all best.

Her sentiments were not at all sincere but such were the means by which one expressed participation in the world.

Dennis was scrubbing the swimming pool tiles with a pumice stone.

“Here’s your tape back,” Francine said.

“It’s something, isn’t it,” Dennis said.

“I found it a little repetitive.”

“Yes, yes, those final chords can never be forgotten quickly enough.” He seemed pleased.

“Dennis, I’m curious about a number of things.”

“Darla was curious.”

“You are from St. Louis and Darla is buried there?”

He nodded. “My family once owned half of St. Louis but they don’t anymore.”

“It seems a lot to be responsible for,” she agreed. “But my point is, with you treasuring the memory of Darla so, I would think you would find her more present back there.”

Dennis opened his mouth in a wide grimace. “Sorry,” he said. “Darla always told me I eat too fast. Sometimes I can’t catch my breath. I just had lunch.”

“You could visit her grave and such,” Francine went on relentlessly.

“That would be unhealthy, wouldn’t it?” Dennis said. “Besides, Darla never liked St. Louis. She didn’t care for vernacular landscapes. You couldn’t see the stars in St. Louis. Darla liked a pretty night. No one liked a pretty night more than that girl did.”

“She sounds like an exceptional young woman,” Francine said dryly.

“She was beautiful and smart and kind and generous.”

“I don’t see her, Dennis. I can’t picture her at all.”

“And when she looked at you, she did it with her whole heart. You existed when she looked at you. You were …” He appeared to be short of breath again.

“I’m not a particularly nice person, Dennis. I’ve had to admit that to myself, and I’ll admit it to you as well. I might have been nice once but I get by the best I can now. I don’t even know how you’d look at someone, anything, with your whole heart. Why, you’d wear yourself out. You’d become nothing but a cinder. Life would become intolerable in no time. Now, it sounds as though you had a very fortunate childhood until you didn’t. It’s what I always think when I see cows grazing in the fields or standing in those pleasant little streams that wind through the fields or finding shade beneath the occasional tree, that they have a very nice life until they don’t. An extreme analogy, perhaps — well, yes, forget that analogy, but you have to move on, Dennis. Your life’s not assimilating your days and that’s not good, Dennis.”

“What?” Dennis said.

“Now I want you to read the note I’ve given you. And I really must find Freddie. He and the sheltie have been gone for an unusually long while.”

Francine walked briskly through the patio to the garage. The door was open and Freddie’s large dour Mercedes was gone, leaving only “her” car, an unreliable convertible she professed to adore. She would go to the dog park. She stepped into the convertible, turned on the ignition and studied the gauges. It was very low on fuel.

At the gas station, the attendant inside said, “What would you do if this wasn’t a real hundred-dollar bill?”

“What would I do?”

“Yeah!” The girl had unnaturally black hair and a broad unwinning smile.

“Of course it’s real. Do you think I’m trying to pass off a counterfeit?”

“Nah,” the girl said, “I’m not going to take it. I’m using my discretion.”

“It’s a perfectly good bill,” Francine said. “Don’t you have a pen or a light or something that you pass over these things?”

“You have to give me something smaller. I’m using my discretion.”

Francine was about to continue her protests but realized this would only prolong the girl’s happiness. She returned to her car, annoyed but not so shaken that she failed to offer the moribund palm on the pump island her customary sympathy.

There was no dearth of gas stations. She broke the hundred and filled up the gluttonous little car. Then, after driving for miles and making several incorrect turns, she arrived at the dubious park. When she and Freddie had first moved to Arizona they had taken a rafting trip and everyone had gotten sick. The guide had not lost enthusiasm for his troubled industry, however. “Nobody likes to get sick from a little sewage!” he’d said. “But you’re on the river! Some folks only dream of doing this!” This was another river, though, or had been.

A half dozen dogs rushed up to her. One had a faded pink ribbon attached somehow to the crown of its head, but none of them had collars. She tried to befriend them with what Freddie referred to as her birthday-party voice, though they seemed a wary lot and disinterested in false forms of etiquette. She wondered which one of them had the hallucinations and what he thought was going on around him right then. She waded through the pack and approached a group of people sitting on a cluster of concrete picnic tables.

“Has a man with a sheltie been here today?”

“The sheltie,” a woman said. “Congratulations!”

“I’m sorry?” Francine said.

“No need to be. It was a dignified departure, wasn’t it, Bev?”

“As dignified as they come,” Bev said. “We all almost missed it.”

“I find it so much more convincing to see how things just happen rather than to observe how we, as human individuals, make them happen,” a man said.

“Yeah, but we still almost missed it,” Bev said, “even you.” She winked at Francine. “He thinks too much,” she confided.

“A swift closure,” another man said. “One of the best we’ve seen.”

Francine began to cry.

“What’s this, what’s this,” someone said fretfully.

Francine returned to the car and drove aimlessly, crying, around the sprawling city. “Poor old dear,” she cried. “Poor old dear.” But I might have misunderstood those people completely, she thought. What had they said, anyway? She stopped crying. When it was almost dark she pulled up to a restaurant where she and Freddie had dined when they did such things. She went into the restroom and washed her face and hands. Then she opened her purse and studied it for a long moment before removing a hairbrush. She pulled the brush through her hair for a while and then replaced it. Slowly she closed the handbag, which as usual made a decisive click.

In the dining room, the maître d’ greeted her. “Ahh,” he said noncommittally. She was seated at a good table. When the waiter appeared she said, “I’m starving. Bring me anything, but I have no money. Tomorrow I can come back with the money.” She was a different person. She felt like a different person saying this.

The waiter went away. Nothing happened. She watched the waiters and the maître d’ observing her. On the wall beside her was a large framed photograph of a saguaro that had fallen on a Lincoln Brougham in the parking lot and smashed it good. Save for such references, one hardly knew one was in the desert anymore.

People came into the restaurant and were seated. They made their selections, were served and then left, all in an orderly fashion. A glass of water had been placed before Francine when she first sat down and she had drunk that and the glass had not been refilled.

She left before they flipped the chairs and brought out the vacuum cleaner. When she arrived home the garage door was still open and Freddie’s Mercedes was not there. There would probably be a reminder in their mailbox the following morning that subdivision rules prohibited garage interiors to be unnecessarily exposed. No one likes to look at someone else’s storage, they would be reminded. Francine very much did not want to go into the house and face once more, and alone, the humming refrigerator and the moth floating in the sheltie’s water dish. Given Freddie’s continued absence, she would probably have to call the police. But she did not want to call the police after her experience with the fire department. She considered both of these official agencies and their concept of correctness of little use to her. She eased the car into gear — it sounded as though something was wrong with the transmission again — and drove off once more into the dully glowing web of the city, lowering the roof and then raising it again, unable to decide if she was warm or cold. Finally she left the roof down, though no stars were visible. The lights of the city seemed to be extinguishing them by the week.

Stopped at a light at a large intersection, she saw the Barbeques Galore store. The vast parking area covered several acres and was dotted with dilapidated campers, for the store was not closed for the evening but had gone out of business, providing welcome habitat for the aimless throngs coursing through the land.

She turned and, threading her way among the vehicles, heard the murmur of voices and saw the silhouettes of figures moving behind flimsily curtained windows. Some trucks had metal maps of the country affixed to the rear, the shapes of the states colored in where the people had been. Dangling from the windshield mirrors were amulets of all kinds, crosses, beads, chains. On the dashboards were cups, maps, coins and crumpled papers, even a tortoise nibbling on a piece of lettuce. And there, swooping in a graceful arc on the darkened margin of the place, Galore, the ineradicable locus of what had been his happiness, was Dennis on his waxed and violet Fat Boy. He hadn’t seen her yet, of that she was sure. But if she went to him, what could be the harm? For he was no more than a child in his yearnings, and his Darla was just an exuberant young girl who could never dream she didn’t have a life before her.