The atmosphere of the theater for the pickup rehearsal was light. Not only were the house lights on, but the entire cast was laughing and joking around. When the rehearsal finally got started, the actors who weren't in the scenes sat in the audience watching. Lee sat way in the back, marveling at the job Andrew was doing. Most of the actors were simply going through their paces, re-familiarizing themselves with the blocking and the lines, but Andrew was just as much W.O. Gant as he had been opening night, Saturday night and Sunday evening. He was so much W.O. Gant that the other people in his scenes were slowly pulled into the atmosphere of the play. When he left the stage, they resumed horsing around.

At the end of Act I, Lee did his part for the first scene change, which took about five minutes because everyone was cutting up. They finally got it set, and Lee went back to his spot. When her bit in the marble yard scene was done, the young woman who played Laura came down the steps at the side of the stage, looked around the seats, then chose the seat next to Lee. They whispered greetings to each other, then watched Andrew. A few minutes later, he had to go help with the second scene change. That took ten minutes instead of ten seconds. Finally, the director, who had left the room for a brief moment to poop, returned and hollered at them and they finished with miraculous efficiency. Lee went back and sat next to the young woman. Eight or so minutes later, she got up to do her next scene. The scent of her sweet perfume remained.

After the completely chaotic curtain call, the director gathered the cast and crew for notes. The young woman who played Laura once again sat next to Lee. When the director finished telling them that he was glad they had gotten that out of their systems and that he'd see them all the next night, Lee stood up to leave with the rest of the cast.

"Lee," the young woman said.

He turned to her. She was smiling. Lee smiled back, then admitted that he didn't remember her name.

"Shame on you," she said and laughed. "It's Veronica, like the park."

"What park?" Lee said, rather stupidly.

"You've never been to Veronica Park? How long have you lived in this town, silly?"

After consulting Steve and Geoff, he told her he had been there about six weeks or so, but it had seemed more like fourteen months. Then he asked her what her last name was.

"Field," she said, "Like Sally, but without the Oscars™."

"I was afraid you were going to say 'Park'," Lee said, and Veronica looked at him with a "why would I say 'Park'?" look. Lee quickly changed the subject. "Well, a field could be a park," he said.

"Okay, whatever," Veronica said. "You have to see the park. I go there all the time. It's my favorite 'quiet place'. And they have a swing set. I could show it to you. If you'd like. How about this weekend?"

After Lee's initial reaction, which involved being very flattered that a young woman would want to show him a park, and being very fearful that a young woman would want to show him anything, they decided she would meet him at the diner after the lunch rush on Saturday and escort him to the park. She bounced up the aisle and out of the theater.

When Lee woke up on Friday morning, he lay on the couch with a strange smile on his face. His pajamas were... (Steve! What? I was going to say wrinkled. Oh.) tented. (Steve! I lied. Well don't. And anyway, Lee doesn't wear pajamas. His shorts were tented? I mean it, Steve.) He tried to figure out why he had such a strange smile, and remembered that he had a date to go to a park with a very young woman. Then he remembered that he had to return the call to his wife's lawyer, and the smile disappeared. So did the tent.

After washing the last bit of hardened egg yolk and ketchup from the last plate, Lee dried his hands, found the slip of paper with Beverly's lawyer's office's phone number, picked up the phone and dialed.

"Brown, Smith, White, Nguyen and Darrow," the voice of an old woman announced to him. "How may I direct your call?"

He asked for José Washington, and, after finding out who he was, what he wanted and repeatedly calling him "dear", the old woman put him through to Mr. Washington's secretary, who wanted to know who he was, what he wanted and repeatedly put him on hold.

"Washington," a voice that sounded like a combination of Mel Torme and Don Pardo said when he was finally put through.

"Mr. Washington, this is Lee Harris," Lee said, then, when it seemed that the lawyer had no idea who he was, added, "Returning your call." And when Mr. Washington still seemed stumped, added "Beverly Harris's husband?" then, when he still seemed to have no idea, said, "You called yesterday?"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Harris. I was calling you about the house."

"For Christ's sake," Lee shouted into the phone. "I told her I'd look over the papers and let her know. What the hell does she want from me, now?"

"Calm down, Mr. Harris, I think I have a proposition that you'll find quite equitable." Lee hated when people used words like "proposition", "equitable" and "quite." When he didn't say anything, Mr. Washington continued. "You'll get half the house, the SUV and the kitchen stuff. She'll take the Beemer, and you'll be able to wipe your hands of the whole thing."

It seemed like something was missing from the conversation. Lee tried to think what it might be.

"It sounds like you're talking divorce," Lee said and realized that was what was missing.

"Yes," Mr. Washington said. "I'll draw up the papers and get them out to you. It's all standard. It can be taken care of in no time."

"I'll have to think about it," Lee said.

"Okay," Mr. Washington said. "But don't take too long."

"Why not?"

"We're being nice," Mr. Washington answered. "For now."

When Andrew sat down at his spot at the makeup table, he looked over at Lee, who was absent-mindedly playing with a square of theatrical tissue. Andrew watched him for a while before he cleared his throat.

"Oh," Lee said, trying to hide the toilet paper square. "Hi, Andrew."

"You really don't have to worry. You did really good on Sunday. You didn't over do, you were fine."

Lee sighed deeply. "It's not that," he said. "Thanks, though. I think I can last through the run of this. Then I can split with a good conscience."

"Okay, so what is it?" Andrew said as he arranged his makeup and handed Lee his sponge. "Wait, you're going to leave town?"

"I talked to Beverly's lawyer today. She's filing for divorce. Yeah, I'm leaving. There's nothing keeping me here but the play, and I sort of have to finish that, I guess."

"That was quick," Andrew said.

"What, leaving town?" Lee said as he began applying the base. "Yeah, I guess so."

"No, Beverly filing for divorce. She found a lawyer kind of fast. What did he want?"

"You know. He has the standard papers he wants me to sign. I get half the house, my car and the kitchen stuff, she gets the Beemer. All standard."

Andrew set his makeup brush down and simply stared at Lee. Lee felt the stare and looked up to see what it was all about. Andrew continued to stare. Lee continued to be confused by it. Finally, Andrew spoke.

"Didn't you tell me she has a ton of antiques?" he said, and Lee's confusion solidified.

"Um, yeah," Lee said. "She does."

"And you bought them, didn't you?" Andrew asked. Lee just nodded. "Listen, in Illinois, it's community property. She needs to get them appraised by a mutually agreed upon appraiser, and she either needs to give you the money for half of the appraisal or sell half of them and give you the proceeds."

Lee's mind spun. He had to latch onto something to stop it.

"Then she'd get half my CD's," he said. He remembered the humiliation of trying to sell them and added, "Of course they're probably worth about fifteen dollars all put together."

"Okay, let me guess," Andrew said as he resumed applying his makeup. "This lawyer was very friendly, probably said he was out to get you the best, most equitable deal, and let him take care of all the details. No mention of the washer/dryer unit, the riding mower, the tools."

"The tools are in my car."

"Okay, the entertainment system. Probably knew you couldn't afford a lawyer of your own. Am I close?"

"Were you listening in?" Lee said.

"You need a lawyer of your own."

"I can't afford one."

Andrew smiled as he stood to get his costume.

"Give me his number. I'll talk to him first thing Monday morning."

"You don't have to do that, Andrew," Lee said as he took his shoes off. "Wait, you're a lawyer?"

Andrew nodded, and Lee sputtered. Besides the need to process stuff, Lee found himself sputtering all too often in this town. He forced himself to stop sputtering, breathed in to give himself the time to form the next utterance completely before trying to speak it. When he was sure the sentence would come out comprehensible, he opened his mouth.

"I, um....," he said. "You... Why didn't you tell me that?"

"It never came up," Andrew said. "I also never told you I have three nipples."

"You have three nipples?" Lee said, his eyes wide, wanting to see, and ashamed of himself for wanting to see, trying to scan Andrew's tee-shirt for the bumps, trying to not seem like he was scanning another man's tee-shirt.

"No," Andrew said, "but I am a lawyer."

Lee looked skeptical until Andrew handed him his lawyer card, then scratched the middle nipple. As Lee put on his trousers, he again patiently explained that he couldn't afford a lawyer. As he put on his socks, Andrew patiently explained that he had never mentioned a fee, and that he was sure they could work out some proposition that would be quite equitable. As he was buttoning his suspenders, Lee said Andrew would have to be patient, as he would have to think about it. Andrew patiently said okay.

Veronica wore a sun dress with a large pastel flower print. She had her hair casually pulled up in a reckless, carefree way, tied with a scarf. It was the perfect outfit for an outing in the park with no expectations. Lee wondered what would be expected of him. He wore slacks, a sweater and sneakers and felt old from the moment he saw her come into the diner. The air in the park was rich with a cornucopia of scents. He could distinguish the smell of distant bar-b-que grilled burgers, the breeze across a bed of aromatic flowers, cut grass, pine and maple trees mixed with the sweet wild-flower perfume that Veronica wore.

The park was a strange combination of manicured and wild, with small pockets of woods, and large, hilly, grassy areas for people to play and relax and picnic and stroll in. The late fall day was surprisingly warm, and the sounds of volleyball and children mixed with birdsong fell agreeably on Lee's ears. The sun shone warmly on his face and shoulders, but was tempered pleasantly by the occasional cool stirring of air, and he felt good walking along with this young woman. He felt like a kid as he pushed her on the swings. She giggled when she got off, twirled gaily, then skittered away.

Lee felt old again.

They came upon a pond with ducks, swans and Esther Williams swimming on it, and a patch of rushes on the other side that rustled when the air stirred. The surface of the pond gently rippled.

"Is this Veronica Lake?" he asked with a smile.

"No," Veronica said, scrunching her face. "It's River Bend Pond."

Lee chose not to explain his joke. It would just make him feel too old. Instead he asked where the river was.

"What river?"

"The one River Bend is named after."

"There's no River," Veronica said, and skipped away. "They probably named it after the pond."

Lee followed, determined not to feel older still. He tried to skip, and tripped over a stray strand of crabgrass. He glared at it, then walked carefully and stiltedly behind her. In the distance, at the edge of a stand of trees, was a couple on a blanket, eating from a picnic basket. The woman sensually fed the man tidbits, and the man ate, getting a little closer to the woman with each bite. Veronica was headed right for them. The closer Lee got to the couple, the more uncomfortable he felt. He was sure it was due to Veronica's indiscretion, but as he approached he realized he recognized the woman. It took a few paces for him to admit that the woman was Agnes. It took a few more to see that the man was a few years younger than that Billy guy.

"Agnes," Veronica called out, and Agnes turned toward them, never interrupting the flow of pastries.

"Hello," Agnes said. "Hello, Lee."

An umber cat, its tail up, purring, rubbed against Lee's leg. He bent down to pet it, then pulled his hand back quickly. On the back of his hand, three thin lines of red appeared and grew, and the cat ran into the woods.

"And isn't this a delightful young girl?"Agnes purred, staring intently at Lee. "Our young Laura."

Veronica smiled, but felt somehow uneasy at the compliment, which confused her. She put her arm in Lee's and gently pulled him away. As they walked away, Agnes put another bit of pastry into the young man's mouth, then took the other end into her own. Lee turned his head, afraid that the kiss would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life. He couldn't chance the physiological consequences of such dreams. He covered his ears and whistled just to be sure no stray image got through to plant a seed.

"Hey," Veronica said. "I bet I know what you would like."

Lee was afraid that whatever it would be would make him feel old.

"They have a lecture series at the college."

"What," Lee laughed, "two local intellectuals discussing a philippic decrying the relative juxtaposition of two disparate notions of security in modern and semi-modern societal intercourse?"

"No," Veronica said, "that was last week."

Lee said that he had to get back to the diner and help out before leaving for the theater, and Veronica asked if they could do something together again. Lee smiled, not feeling old at all and asked what she had in mind. She said one of her favorite local bands was playing at a club the next Saturday and they could go after the show. Lee said sure, and she hugged him. Lee hugged her back enthusiastically.

Lee finally felt like he was gaining some sort of consistency in his performance. He didn't feel exhilarated like the night when he had done so badly, and didn't feel devastated like the night he had done well, he just felt okay, which Andrew assured him was good. Andrew also assured him that, if he kept up with it, he would learn to feel exhilarated when he had done well. Lee was sure he would never be around long enough to experience that, but thought it might be a nice thing. He also thought that the guy playing the doctor had never known that sensation, bless his heart.

Just as he was taking his trousers off in the dressing room after the show, a man came up to him and put out his hand. Lee started to shake his hand, but his pants started to fall, so he quickly pulled them up and grabbed them with the other hand, thinking that he had finally been reduced to a scene in a Three Stooges movie. While the man shook his hand, he told him how much he had enjoyed what he did on stage.

"Are you sure you have the right guy?" Lee asked. "I only had one scene."

"Yeah. You were great. I was wondering if you would consider auditioning for the play I'm directing next month?"

Lee's flabber gasted. He wasn't even sure if he was going to be in town more than a couple of weeks, was fairly sure, actually, that he wouldn't be, and was also fairly sure that even if he was still going to be in town, he was going to give up this ridiculous notion of being an actor. It involved way too much being seen and having people he didn't know talk to him.

"Um... Well, I don't know. I, uh... um, I'm flattered," he finally said. "I'll have to think about it."

The man gave him a piece of folded paper, nodded and left. Lee unfolded it. It had information on the times, dates and location of the auditions for Of Mice and Men. Andrew looked over his shoulder at the paper.

"Wow," Andrew said. "You got a personal audition notice."

"Yeah," Lee said, not sure if he was supposed to be impressed.

"So," Andrew said. "Have you thought about it?"

"What?" Lee said. "I just got it."

"No," Andrew laughed. "About me taking your case. I've been really good about not bringing it up all night."

"I'll have to think about it," Lee said.

"Okay. Don't take too long, though," Andrew said, putting his hand on Lee's shoulder. Lee finally let his pants drop.

"That's exactly what José Washington said. Is it some lawyer thing?" Lee asked.

"No," Andrew said with a laugh as he cupped his hand and asked Lee to turn his head and cough, "I just mean that he'll probably get ugly if you don't take some sort of stand."

"I'm not even sure if I'm going to stay in town," Lee said, and realized that he had said that way too many times and wished his writers were more talented. And could spell.

At three forty-seven the next morning, Veronica sat up in her bed.

"What the hell did she mean by 'our young Laura?'" she said.

"What?" her roommate asked groggily through the wall that separated their bedrooms.

"Nothing. Go back to sleep."

"Yeah," slurred her roommate's boyfriend. "Go back to sleep."

Tuesday afternoon, Peter called Lee and asked if he wanted to go out for cheap beer after he got off work. Lee didn't have anything else to do, he didn't have a date with Veronica until after the play that Saturday, so he said sure, and they agreed to meet at Peter's. The night air had a crisp chill and seemed to sparkle with crystals of ice. As Lee drove the SUV through the town toward Peter's, he noticed the hood of the car subtly change as the heat of the engine started melting the thin layer of frost in a soft "H" pattern. Until he saw that he hadn't noticed the frost. He was glad he had decided not to take the Stingray. He would have to put that thing in mothballs until spring. For the next guy that lived on the couch above Twain's. What if it's still me, he thought, and the thought made his bladder contract. Or was that the cold?

Lee really had to go pee when he got to Peter's. The bathroom was still spotless, and Lee would have shaken his head in wonder, but wanted to make sure he didn't drip on the floor. The soap bar matched the peach colored towels, which matched the throw rug, which contrasted nicely with the off white and dark green tiling that ringed the sink and tub.

"Sorry about the mess," Peter said when Lee came back into the living room. Peter had moved some stuff off the couch onto the floor so Lee had room to sit. There were still more piles of stuff on the couch, but there was plenty of room for both of them without either getting too close to the other. "Want a beer before we go?"

"Sure," Lee said. He felt like just sitting for a moment anyway. There was a loud crash from the other room.

"Cliche!" Peter shouted, and jumped up to see what had fallen.

"It was just a pan that Cliche knocked off the side of the bed," Peter said when he got back. He had made a side trip to the kitchen and brought in two beers. Either he had made a side trip to the kitchen, or he kept the beer in the bedroom. Lee didn't want to know.

"Why do you call your cat Cliche?" Lee said. The beer was cold and tasted good. He pulled a long drink from the can.

"Because it's such a cliche for an aging gay man to have more than one cat," Peter said quietly. He spoke quickly, so that he wouldn't have a chance to change his mind, but as soon as the words came out of his mouth he started thinking how he might put them back.

"But you only have one cat."

"I used to have two," Peter said and pulled a long drink from his can. He was in for it, now.

"And you're not aging."

"Did you hear what I said?" Peter asked, a bit perturbed, sure it would be the last thing he ever said to this sad, sad man.

"Yeah, I was politely avoiding it," Lee said and set his empty can on the coffee table next to the tattered Old Maid card. "Anyway, Andrew told me."

Peter was nonplused. All that angst for this? No histrionics? No drama? He was vaguely disappointed. And why the hell was Andrew going around telling people? And how the hell did Andrew know?

"And you don't mind?" he said and finished his beer.

"Why should I mind?" Lee asked, truly confused by the question, wondering if he should mind, if it was somehow unkind not to be freaked out. He'd never been come out to.

"Oh," Peter said. "You wouldn't maybe," he said as he sat back down, "maybe want to..."

"No," Lee said, very quickly.

"Oh," Peter said. "Sorry. I didn't mean..."

"So," Lee said. "How 'bout that Danny Bonaduce?"

"What," Peter said, "is he... ?"

"No."

Lee tried desperately to find a new subject.

"So," he said, looking around the room for one. "Where did you get Cliche?"

"From an old queen," Peter said, enjoying himself for perhaps the first time in days.

Lee gave up, and Peter got up to get him another beer. When Peter was in the kitchen, Lee took out a flamethrower and set fire to Dancer from the Dance and the Capote Reader. (Steve, we don't burn books! Valley of the Dolls? No burning of books. Period. Fahrenheit 451? Steve. Call of the Wild? I'll turn my head.)

"I have a little Canadian whiskey," Peter called from the kitchen. "Want some?"

Lee considered for a moment, then realized he really would like a shot of a good Canadian, and told Peter so. When Peter came back into the living room, Lee was leaning forward on the couch, his elbow on one knee, his head resting in that hand, absent-mindedly flipping the pages of a small book with the other. Peter set the beer and shot glasses down and sat looking at Lee for a while. Lee sighed and set the book down, picked up the shot glass and raised it in a toast. They drank, and only then did Lee notice that the book was a French/English dictionary.

"Do you speak French?" Peter asked him, waiting for an opening to impress him with the three phrases he knew and could pronounce flawlessly, two of which translated to variations of "I don't know," and the third to something like "hello, little people" or "hey there, young ones." They all sounded really cool.

"Yeah," Lee said and opened the beer. "Minored in it."

The three phrases took off down the Seine, and Cliche laughed at him in French, then washed his face daintily. Lee sighed again. Peter asked him what was wrong, and he said he really just didn't know what to do. Peter asked him about what, and he said about anything. Peter got the bottle of Canadian from the kitchen and poured Lee another shot. The bottle was big and mostly full. Lee drank without comment. It spread out hotly from his mouth to his throat, then singed its way down to his stomach in the most pleasant of ways.

"Do you think she slept with him, Peter?" Lee asked after pouring himself another shot and taking a small, smooth, warm sip from it. "When we were together?"

"I don't know," Peter said, sipping at his own shot. "She's certainly sleeping with him now."

"I did leave."

"And it didn't take her long to warm up her bed, Lee," Peter said to him. "Warm up your bed."

"You think they're sleeping in my bed?" Lee asked, sort of stupidly, and even as he asked it he knew how stupid it was, but somehow he needed to know they weren't sleeping together. Or that they were. Or that they were, but someplace else. Or that this burning knot in his chest and this knife in his intestines that he was getting so used to he barely thought about any more, would eventually fade into small, inconsequential callouses that he could occasionally look at and wonder where they had come from. He took another warm sip of whiskey, and chased it with a sip of cold beer.

"I don't know," Peter said.

"She wants a divorce. Her lawyer called. Andrew wants to take the case. She has a lawyer. How the hell does she already have a lawyer?"

"So let Andrew handle it."

"I'm not even sure if I'm going to stay in town. I'm pretty sure I'm going to leave."

"That again," Peter said. "Come on, Lee, everybody knows you're not going to leave. You're the main character."

"Yeah, but if I leave, they'll follow me and leave you all behind," Lee said. "Easy."

"No, they'll stay and I'll be the main character."

"But you're gay. It would probably be Twain," Lee said. "Or Stella."

"Stella! Now you have to stay. Hey, want some nachos?"

"Sure. You really got Cliche from an old queen?"

"Uh-huh. You know," Peter shouted from the kitchen. "I kept looking and I couldn't tell that Beverly had a nose job."

There was a loud bang and a small crash. Lee picked up the remote, scraped the spot of what looked like crusted cheese off of it with the edge of the Old Maid card and switched on the television. Then he set the remote down and went into the bathroom to wash his hands.

"Hey," he shouted to the kitchen. "Why is your bathroom always so clean?"

"What?" Peter shouted back.

Lee shut the water off and repeated himself as he dried his hands on the fluffy peach colored hand towel. The one that matched the throw rug. Peter explained loudly that he always started there and lost energy by the time he was done. There was another loud crash and a small bang from the kitchen, then the sound of the oven door shutting with a squeak and a hollow thunk.

"Why don't you start in another room?" Lee asked as he came back to the living room and sat.

"What," Peter said, poking his head around the kitchen doorway, "and have a dirty bathroom?"

He looked truly aghast at the thought. Lee bumped a stack of old New York Times Book Reviews, which fell off the couch and landed on the floor, spreading out in a gentle arc. They both stared at the papers, then started laughing and Peter went back to finish preparing the nachos. Lee looked at the television screen. The sound was all the way down and the show seemed to be about gladiators or death or Euro Disney or something. There was a small baking dish on the coffee table with more crusted orange on it.

"What's this?" Lee said.

Peter looked back out.

"Oh," he said, and took it into the kitchen. "Sorry. I eat melted cheese. Sometimes. When I'm, um. Sometimes."

"Plain?"

"With a spoon." (Geoff, is that the best you can do? That's how he eats it.)

Lee could hear the squeak of the oven door opening, and suddenly the room was filled with the most amazing and wonderful smell. Peter came into the room wearing tattered rooster shaped oven mitts, holding a pizza pan filled with chips, bubbling melted cheese, sliced radishes, sliced black and green olives and jalapeño peppers, diced onions and sautéed, marinated chicken covered with a glob of sour cream and a dollop of guacamole. Lee clumsily cleared the coffee table of everything but the beers and whiskey, and Peter proudly set the feast down, then went back for paper plates and napkins.

"Got any salsa?"

"Sorry," Peter said, as he came back. "I ate it last night."

"Plain?"

(Okay, funny man, here's your chance.)

"With a spoon."

(Who are you?)

Lee picked up a nacho chip, and scooped some goop onto it. Peter saw the small scratches on the back of Lee's hand and pointed to them.

"Some stupid cat," Lee said.

Cliche glared at him for a moment, then left the room.

About a quarter of the way through the pile of nachos, Lee noticed the Scrabble set perched precariously on the top shelf over the records, and they decided to play. They pulled a chair up and moved the nacho tray to it so they could set the board on the coffee table. Peter pulled the "b" tile and smiled. Lee pulled the "a" and went first. His first word was "pismire".

"Double letter on 'p' is six, fourteen on a double word, twenty-eight, and fifty for using seven tiles. It's an ant."

"I know. Not bad for an opening," Peter said and put "empty" using Lee's "m". "Seventeen."

"Sixteen," Lee said. Peter added it again. Lee was right.

"I wasn't trying to cheat you."

"I know," Lee said as he played his next word. "They offered me a part at the theater."

Peter raised his eyebrows and the shot glass, and Lee told him about the guy in the dressing room. Peter laughed and told him he wasn't offered a part, he was invited to audition. When Lee looked confused, he explained the difference. When Lee looked perplexed, Peter laughed. When Lee looked stricken, Peter got two more beers.

"I have nice teeth," Lee said as if that explained everything, then put "donkey" on the board.

"Wow," Peter said as he wrote the score down. "I have three 'i's and an 'e' and two 'o's."

"That's only six tiles."

"And a 'blank'."

The board was half full, the nacho tray half empty, the beer was gone, and the whiskey still tasted really good. Lee was substantially ahead, but Peter still had hope. They had laughed and joked their way this far, and all Peter needed was one high scoring play.

"I think Veronica Park likes me," Lee said as he started putting letters down on the top row.

"You mean Veronica Field? Why do you say that?"

"We went to Veronica Lake together." Lee's head was full of warm sunshine through thick white clouds. "I mean park."

"Isn't she kind of..." Peter was going to say "young for you?" but stopped just short and said "perky?"

Lee finished laying the tiles down. The word was "quetzals" using the "e" from "enrage" and turning "any" into "zany" starting on the middle Triple Word Score© and ending on the last one.

"What the hell is a quetzals?"

"Are you shallenging me? Challenging?"

"Just tell me what it means?"

"It's a bird from Central 'Merica. Green and red feathers. Plural. 'Z' on a double letter is twenty which makes thirty-six, tripled twice is three-twenty-four, and 'zany' is twenty-six with the double 'z', plus fifty for seven tiles makes four hundred."

"Four hundred?"

"Yeah."

"Even?"

"Yeah."

"On this one move?"

"Yeah. Four hundred. Write it down."

"Who are you?"

Peter added an "r" to "lose" for five points, then quite gave up, feeling the edge of the board, tempted to flip it over, but not wanting to cause a ruckus.

"I'm staying," Lee said.

"What?"

"I'm staying. In town. I hafta. I gotta stop having to think about it. I gotta make a stand. I gotta finish something. I'll talk to Andrew tomorrow."

"That's great," Peter said, surprised at how pleased he was to have lost that particular game of Scrabble.

"Oh, man," Lee said, looking at his watch. "We were supposed to go to The Office."

He stood and his legs, which were now as substantial as a cool breeze on a warm day, crumpled. He fell on the table, sending the tiles everywhere. An "o" hit Cliche just below the tail and stuck. (Steve, that's not funny. Stop laughing!) For one point.

"I gotta get home. Sorry 'bout The Office. I gotta get home."

He tried to stand, landed back on the couch and brushed a "q" off his cheek. For ten.

"You can't drive anywhere," Peter said. "You can't even walk. Stay here. You can have the couch."

"No couch," Lee said, waving his hand. "Gotta get home."

He tried to stand again, and Peter laughed, pushing the remaining piles off the couch to the floor. Lee sat back down and laughed with him.

"It's not like you've never slept on a couch."

"Gotta get home," Lee laughed, then fell sideways and closed his eyes.

Peter lifted Lee's legs by the pant cuff and set them onto the couch. Lee turned onto his back, stretching out fully. Peter got a blanket, flipped it open and let it float down very gently, covering Lee. Peter was careful not to accidentally touch any part of him. He debated taking off Lee's shoes. He knew how uncomfortable it was sleeping with shoes on. Even if you were drunk. But taking someone's shoes off was such an intimate act. He went back and forth for several minutes, almost reaching out to untie one, then pulling back, then almost reaching out to the other. The whiskey and beer interfered with his ability to think, and the nachos interfered with his ability to stand up straight, so he decided he should just let them be and went off to bed, still debating.

He fell asleep still debating.

Two bad dreams later, he woke up. He couldn't let the guy sleep with his shoes on. He brushed the 'o' off his forehead and went quietly to the living room. Lee's shoes were off and placed neatly, side by side, right in front of the couch, and the blanket was tossed, rumpled, to the floor. Lee had rolled to his side, and pulled his legs up. Peter picked the blanket up and covered Lee again. He stood looking at him for a long time, then sighed, picked up the tray of stale nachos and went back to bed.

Cliche climbed up onto the couch and fell asleep nestled in the crook of Lee's knees.

The diner was warm and inviting when Lee unlocked the front door. He went behind the counter and flipped the switches that turned on the recessed ceiling lights in the dining room and the flourescent lights in the kitchen, then set about setting up. The smell of the first pot of coffee brewing matched perfectly with his mood. He actually sang as he got the diner ready for breakfast. I Will Survive. He was turning her out the door when Twain came in and sat down at the counter. Twain observed him intently as he poured the coffee.

"Something happened last night," Twain observed.

"I made up my mind. I'm sticking around," Lee said with a smile and went in back to get the butter out, dancing slightly off key as Gloria Gaynor confirmed he didn't lay down and die. Oh, no, not he.

Twain simply finished his coffee, accepting his fate as a supporting character with grace.

After breakfast, Lee called Andrew and gave him Mr. Washington's number. Andrew reacted as if he had just gotten a date with Tyne Daley. Let him have his fun, Lee thought. I'm going to a club with Agnes. Veronica! I mean Veronica. Veronica Lake. I mean Park. I mean Field! Young Veronica Field! He ran upstairs and brushed his teeth. Twice.

Veronica was waiting just outside the men's dressing room door when Lee came out after the show. Lee stopped short when he saw her. He had never known what it meant when people said they stopped short, but now he did. His feet stopped, his heart stopped, his face stopped, his go stopped. His pores, however, kept right on going. She wore nice, tight Capri jeans with a snug fitting cashmere sweater. Those clothes didn't hide any flaws. There weren't any to hide. He tried to speak, but his tongue was hard. He had on slacks and a sweater. You could hide a whole performance by Keanu Reeves in those trousers and still have enough room left over for a cameo by Sandra Bullock. The one concession to coolness was pulling his sweater sleeves up above the wrists.

"Professorial," she said.

He wasn't sure how to take that until she hugged him with her entire outfit. He breathed in her perfume, that sweet, thin scent sprayed on slightly too thick. It smelled like The Office without the beer. It smelled like victory. It smelled really good. Andrew grabbed him by the arm as he walked by.

"Have fun, you two."

Lee was embarrassed. And proud. He felt tall in his loafers. And he was wearing loafers. He felt sixteen. Well, twenty-nine. Well, thirty. And a half. He felt really good.

"Ready?" Veronica asked as she hooked her arm in his.

The thumping drone from the club was vibrating in the pavement for almost a block beyond the club. The street was dark except for the one streetlight just outside the club's black front. There was a gaggle of young people on the sidewalk, crowded around the door. Most had drinks, some had cigarettes. Some had spiked hair, some were elegantly coiffed. Most of them seemed to know Veronica as she pulled Lee toward the door. Some of them instinctively hid their cigarettes behind their backs when they saw him.

When they made their way to the door and opened it, the thickness of the sound made Lee stand up completely straight, wrenching him up from the slump of indignity caused by the green Smurf stamp on the back of his hand®. The vibrations blurred his vision. When he was able to focus on the occupants in the large, smokey, musty room, he felt like a chaperon. At least that's what that feeling must have felt like. He had never been nor had a chaperon, the closest being hall monitor in the fourth grade, but the only way he could quantify the deep sensation of alien separation and confusion was "chaperonness".

On the stage, behind several square pillars that kept the ceiling from falling from the force of the sound, was the band; a drummer, shirtless, wearing his sweat like a badge; the bassist who wanted to get more noise out of his four strings than the guitarist could; the guitarist, who wanted to get more noise out than the drummer could, and the lead singer. Or, rather, lead jumper and screamer.

Lee's ears swore at him, but he couldn't hear them.

When they entered the club, the vibrations permeated Veronica's body and forced her blood to flow in a new, wonderful, sexual rhythm. The rhythm of the beat instantly made her disappear into the atoms of the room and the cells of the people dancing in it. Through the musky smoke she could see the band; the drummer wearing his sweat like a badge; the bass guy and guitarist in perfect synchronicity; the lead singer's sex pouring off the stage and rolling out across the gloriously frenetic revelers, pushing them to the extreme. Her body unhinged and involuntarily undulated. She whipped her hair. She wanted to grab Lee and ravish him right there against the side of one of the pillars. Lee nodded to the beat.

"Who are they?" he shouted at Veronica.

"What?" she answered as she pulled him toward the bar, going under a suspended speaker that threatened to vibrate loose from its moorings.

"The band. Who are they?" he said, punctuating it by forcefully pointing.

"Do you like them?"

"Do you?" he asked, not wanting to really answer.

"What?"

"The band. Do you like them?"

She nodded vigorously. They were at the bar, and Lee was going to ask her what she wanted but the thought of that much shouting was too daunting. He pointed at the draft beer and held up two fingers. There was a cuss jar on the bar, overflowing with quarters. Someone shouted, "Heck" over the din, and a quarter cascaded through the air, end over end, and landed on top of the jar, causing several more quarters to fall to the counter.

Lee was proud that he was able to last one whole set before he had to run out to the sidewalk. Veronica followed, obviously in a state of noise induced ecstasy. It took several moments before his ears came out of hiding, so he missed most of what she said to him. "Aren't they great?" was the first thing he heard completely, if a bit muffled. His ears were still afraid someone was going to beat them with a bat if they showed themselves fully.

"Um, yeah," he said, forcing himself not to shout. "Sure."

She eyed him strangely, then started to laugh.

"What kind of music do you like?"

"I don't know, Charlie Parker. Joplin. The Byrds. Um... Miles Davis."

Maybe her ears weren't working, yet either.

"Simon and Garfunkel?" he tried.

"Oh, yeah. I think my dad listens to them. Feeling Groovy. Pretty lame. Are they still alive?"

Lee wondered where he had put his walker.

"Okay," she said, her cuteness softening his hearing a bit. "Want to go somewhere?"

"Like where?"

"Your place?"

Lee's chest constricted because all of the blood in his body went somewhere else. Then he remembered what "his place" really was. His mind, now starved of blood, thinly imagined her reaction to his couch and he tried to force it to think of a way he could take her up on the proposition without plainly saying they couldn't possibly go there.

"We can't possibly go there."

"Oh. Well, we could go to my place, I guess," she said, and Lee tried to act nonchalant as he bum rushed her to the car.

Her place was a small ramshackle two story house fairly near the college campus. All the lights were on and he could hear music when they walked up the walk. At least the music here made some sort of sense. The front hallway smelled like scented candles, stale, sweet wine, popcorn, sea food and hair spray. There were three posters on the living room wall; one of a young blond man wearing a torn, tight tee-shirt; one of two horses looking over a wooden fence post; and one advertising the nineteen ninety-three season of the Akron Philharmonic. On an end table under the blond was a ten gallon aquarium with yellowed water, algae covered glass, a painted deep sea diver in the back corner and two sad, thin, faded guppies staring wistfully out at the room. On the end table under the horses was a Waterford crystal collection. The furniture was funky and mismatched, and, although the carpet needed a good shampooing, the room was fairly neat. But all that has nothing to do with this story.

There was an undercurrent to the music that took Lee a moment to place. When he placed it, he hoped he was wrong. It sounded like the syncopated rhythm of a couple of couples coupling.

"Sounds like both of my roommates are home," Veronica said as she sprinkled a pinch of food into the aquarium.

Lee wished he had been wrong. He sat on the edge of the couch with his hands between his knees. Veronica brought a bottle of wine, a can of 7•Up® and two glass tumblers with ice from the kitchen and sat down next to Lee. She fixed the coolers, handed him one, put her hand on his thigh and leaned in to his face. He returned the kiss. She tasted really good. Her hand felt really good on his thigh. He really wished he could relax, but one half of one of the couples was starting to grunt just as the other half of the other couple stopped. He reflexively looked up at the ceiling through the kiss. Veronica caught him, and started to laugh.

"They get loud, sometimes."

Lee took a long drink and was immediately sorry, but couldn't spit the sweet, sweet, sweet mixture back into the glass. He held it in his mouth for as long as his tongue would let him, then swallowed it with one brave gulp. When it landed in his stomach, it laughed at him. A young man wearing nothing but a pair of tiny briefs and large tattoos went past the living room door. A few minutes later he went past in the other direction carrying a bottle of beer.

"That's Ron," Veronica said.

Ron nodded at Veronica, quietly called Lee "sir" then quickly went on his way. Lee felt more out of place than Geoff at Victoria's Secret. (Come on, Steve, how would you feel if I said you at a Mensa meeting? I don't get it.) Lee felt out of place. (Okay, that works.) He took another sip of the wine cooler. That one didn't taste good, either.

"Want to go upstairs?"

"I really do," he said. "I really, really do. Really. But I really, really can't."

"Why not?" she said, looking really, really hurt.

"I'm just... It's just... There's just... too many people here."

"Oh," she said. "You're shy. That's so cute."

"Thanks," he said. "And I have to open the diner in the morning."

She sighed and walked him to the door, giving him a kiss that would last a week. Lee walked away very quickly, holding his wallet in front of his left pant pocket.

All day Sunday, Lee tried to figure out how they could get together. After the play Sunday night, they both commiserated with each other like star-crossed lovers. Lee was almost ashamed of himself for the analogy. Almost. All week he thought about her with every moment, every move. His nerve endings shimmered. At the pick-up rehearsal, she bounded up to him. He had never been bounded up to by a young woman before and decided he liked it. She announced that she had the perfect solution. They could go to a motel. The thought startled Lee a bit. Even in his shimmery-nerve state, it sounded a bit sordid. But her face glowed so, and the shift she wore draped so. And that sweet perfume. She knew just the place. After comparing his work and her school schedules, they decided to meet there after the lunch rush on Saturday, and she gave him directions.

Before the show on Friday, Andrew told Lee that he had received the papers from Beverly's lawyer late that afternoon. He said he wanted to look them over Monday morning, and wondered if Lee could come in Monday afternoon or Tuesday. Lee was very pleased that he wouldn't have to think about it for a few days and agreed to come in sometime early in the week.

All through the lunch rush on Saturday, the fabric of Lee's clothing felt like sandpaper, and the blood rushing past his ears obliterated almost all other sound. His hands worked independently from his brain. Even more independently than usual. He dropped three pots and one can of Clamato. The resulting crashes made it past the rushing in his ears.

Lee followed Veronica's directions to the motel. She was waiting in the parking lot when he pulled up, bundled cutely in a thick sweater, her hands up in the sleeves, clutching the cuffs. He got out of the car and saw the sign. Casa de Rio. Something sounded in his brain. The air smelled like diesel fuel and maple syrup. He looked around. Across the street was a little A-frame building with a parking lot full of sedans and motor homes. The red neon sign said House of Flapjacks™. Lee's heart sank. He involuntarily looked around the parking lot for a Beemer. He caught himself and looked back at Veronica. At her girlish frame. At her soft, unweathered skin. It all came together; the fake ID she had flashed to the doorman at the club, the wine coolers, the skipping, the music, the roommates, the fish tank, the horse poster, the bounding that he had so enjoyed only a few days before, the sun dress, the Capri jeans. The girl's perfume. But she's twenty, he thought. Yeah, he thought. Twenty. If only she were a year older. If only I were a year younger. If only Ponce de Leon were still alive.

"I can't," he said.

"What?"

He kissed her on the forehead.

Oh, my God, Veronica thought. My father does that. Gross.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I can't."

When he got back to the diner, Lee went upstairs and thought about Agnes.

The energy at the theater that night was a strange mix of hyper and sad. Lee had never experienced a closing night before. It was very different from any other night. There was an electricity in the air that was reminiscent of opening night, but everyone was hugging each other all night. Everyone except Veronica, who seemed to be using every opportunity to be in a different room.

On the way to the party, Lee asked Andrew what Mr. Washington had said. Andrew told him not to worry, but tonight was a party and he would just have to wait until Monday.

The closing night party was at the house of the guy who played the doctor. The house was surprisingly elegant and tasteful, and his wife was beautiful. By the time Lee and Andrew arrived, the party was already hopping. Lee looked around the room for Veronica.

"Hi," he said when he found her.

"Oh," she said. "Hi."

Then she flipped her hair at him like a younger, clumsier Stella, moved to a group of young people and pointedly ignored him, turning every now and then to be sure he noticed. Kim Anderson touched Lee on the shoulder.

"Hi," she said.

"Oh. Hi."

"She's young," Kim said. "I'd think you would need someone more... I don't know. My age."

Lee cocked his head to one side. Outside, a light snow began to fall, covering River Bend in a soft white shawl. Through the window, Lee could see it drift slowly, gently, gracefully through the soft glow of the streetlight. He felt at home.