"I remember you," Peter said, pulling his hand back. "You were looking for Lee."

"Yeah," Jim said. "I found him. Sorta. I went back without his signature. My father yelled at me. I don't like being yelled at. He apologized, but I quit anyway. He only hired me because mom died. I'm not a very good dick. I can play basketball, though. At least I did in high school. He did give me a stake. I mean some money, not the food. Although he took me to Sizzler™ the last night to say goodbye. He's good people."

"Oh."

Jim came into the office and sat on the edge of Stella's desk. She tried to be offended, but her perfume got in the way. Or his cologne. Or, perhaps, his cologne and her perfume started dancing around the room, and it made her dizzy.

"So why are you here?" she said in order to assert some control over the dance.

"I came to volunteer."

"I mean River Bend. What are you doing in River Bend?"

"Oh, that. When I was here looking for Mr. Harris, I decided I liked this town. It was... I don't know, what's that word?"

"Quaint?" Peter asked.

"No. Like that, but no."

"Charming?" Stella asked with a flip of her hair. She was beginning to feel more in charge. Jim shook his head.

"Quirky?" Peter asked.

"No, something like that," Jim answered, furrowing his brow.

"Odd?" Stella asked. He shook his head again.

"Weird?" Peter asked, a bit louder.

"Strange?" Stella tried, her voice rising to his level.

"Unusual?" Peter threw in quickly.

"Funny?" Stella retorted.

"Peculiar?" Peter fired.

"Curious?" Stella shot back.

"Bizarre?" Peter said, wiping the "o" off his face.

"Eccentric?"

"Erratic?"

"Freakish?"

Jim's head whipped back and forth between the two. He was getting a headache. It was a good thing he was no longer a gum shoe. Gum shoes only got headaches from bad whiskey and good women. His wavy blond hair followed his head gracefully, out whipping Stella.

"Idiosyncratic?" Peter asked, triumphantly.

"Queer?" Stella glared.

"Bitch!" Peter stammered.

There was a strange moment in which all the air left the room in an audible whoosh. Peter's beard fluttered in the wind, and Stella's hair pulled out behind her. They stared at each other, both aware that some line had been crossed, but neither sure who had crossed it.

"Yeah, bitching!" Jim said, ecstatic that he had found the word. "That's it big guy. This town was so bitching. When I quit the agency, I decided to start from scratch. I mean everything from scratch. That's what Mr. Harris did. That was so... what's the word?"

They glared at him.

"Um... So here I am. What can I do?"

Stella and Peter breathed air back into the room and pretended nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Stella flipped her hair to be sure she was still the master.

"Do you do windows?" She asked when she was sure.

"Sure," Jim said agreeably. "I'm starting fresh, here. I'll try anything."

Lee stepped out onto the sparkling sidewalk and admired the beautiful way the sun glinted off the low lying snow drift at its edge. The wonderful shock of cold air tightened the muscles of his face and cleared the diner out of his lungs. Even his stride felt crisp. The days after a first snow were among the most incredible times of the year. Everything came together to please the eye, ear and skin. He stepped into the drift to cross the street and it crunched satisfyingly, making him smile. His next step hit the shiny surface of the street and his foot shot out in front of him. The foot in the snow was anchored and he felt a sudden sharp pain somewhere high in his inner thigh. He pulled the errant foot back with all the energy he could put into his thigh muscles, and stood in the snow breathing hard and sweating. The dirty snow soaked into his socks and the sharp cold at the soles of his feet suddenly rivaled the slowly ebbing pain in his groin.

"Son of a..." he looked around for a cuss jar, "bitch."

Winter was a stupid season.

Andrew's wife (does he have a wife? We never discussed that. Sure, she's thirty-four, has flawless alabaster skin, green eyes, long, flowing blond hair. 5'8". A perfectly proportioned hour-glass figure. Owns her own brewery. Oh. I pictured her more like a young Sean Connery or living Gene Kelly. Maybe he doesn't have a wife. Maybe she's at Mom's Used Records. Maybe she's a vampire) wasn't home. When Andrew had moved into semi-retirement, he moved his office furniture into his den. The desk was dark walnut and impressively imposing. There were nicks, scratches and stains on it, and the blotter was green. The green shaded lamp shone over a personalized executive pen set that was never used. His chair was dark brown leather with aged silver tacks. The leather had cracked and stretched to fit his back and bottom in a way that looked like a Jello mold of Andrew's back and bottom.

Lee sat in a guest chair that was beginning to look a lot like Christmas. Andrew explained to him what Mr. Washington had proposed, and explained how it was designed to look like they were being very reasonable while still getting almost everything from Lee's eight year marriage. They talked for a quite a while. To Lee it just felt like a pleasant, casual conversation about the weather, working at Twain's, blues clubs and the Chicago Bears, but by the end of it Andrew had deduced the existence of everything including the coin collection, the remaining crystal wine goblet and Excalibur, the rat dog.

"Here's the mail, Thumbs," Mrs. Divine said and put the stack of bills and a Field and Stream down on the edge of the desk. (Okay, she's not a vampire.) He stood and surrounded her plump frame with his arms and kissed her neck theatrically. Her green eyes sparkled in her round, pleasantly wrinkled face. Her smile took nine years and thirty-one weeks from her face, which made her look only sixty-three years and nine and a half weeks old. She kissed him back on the forehead, then bit his neck. (Steven John Mancini! Uh oh, Mom's here.)

"Where have you been?" Andrew asked, sounding like he had genuinely missed her these last few hours.

"At Comma, Colon and Dickens, shopping," she said, and showed him her new used copies of Winds of War and The Anarchist's Cookbook. "Would either of you like a beverage?"

They both declined, and she excused herself.

"Thumbs?" Lee asked, his head cocked to one side, the observer's grin that he'd thought he'd lost planted firmly on his face.

"Anyways," Andrew said, garishly avoiding the question, "I'll talk to Mr. Washington tomorrow then let you know what's up."

"He's a hot shot city lawyer," Lee said, concerned.

"Don't worry." Andrew's confidence was alluring. "At the very least, you'll get half of the money from the house and the antiques."

Lee felt good as he left their house, like his life was regaining some sense of order and reason. He slid down all three front porch steps, but landed on his feet so it was all right. Until he got to the end of their walk and landed sharply on his keister. He clenched and swore through the sparks that jumped up his spine and shot out in front of his eyes.

There was a knock on the door to the attic. Lee had never heard a knock on his door. He wasn't quite sure what to do about it. He realized it was probably Twain, so he said to come on in. It was Peter. Now, Lee was really not sure what to do. He had never considered the possibility of visitors. He glanced around to make sure there were no errant underwear lying around. Then he remembered who he was. Then he remembered to be embarrassed about the couch.

"Oh. Um," he said. "Hi."

"Sorry, did I get you at a bad time?"

"No, I just thought you were Twain."

"Gee, thanks."

"No, I mean..." Lee was still remembering to be embarrassed. "Sorry about the place."

"Hey, you've seen my place," Peter said, and looked around for the mess. There wasn't one. Not even a small one. Not even something that looked like it could be one sometime in the future. It was an attic filled with boxes and stuff, yet somehow managed to be so neat and organized that it felt like a barracks.

"I love the table," he said.

They looked at each other for a moment. Peter felt Lee's discomfort. He couldn't understand it, but he understood.

"I won't stay long, I just came to apologize."

Lee forgot to be embarrassed. "What for?"

"For being mean to you."

Lee tried to imagine Peter being mean to anyone. "When?" He asked.

"Downstairs. The other morning. When you were trying to understand Kim. I'm sorry I wasn't more there then."

"Oh. That. You weren't mean, you were hung over."

"How are you doing about that?"

"Your hangover?"

"No, Kim."

"Oh. Fine. I guess. Still single."

"'Twas ever thus. I mean about me ever thus. Not you. I mean... Anyway, I'm really sorry."

"No need to apologize. Really. Want a beer or something?"

Peter didn't, really, but didn't want to sound mean, so he said sure. Then he said something really funny and we won an award. Lee motioned for him to sit on the couch, pulled two domestic bottled beers from the little refrigerator, found a folded lawn chair with woven ribbons of green and white plastic and unfolded it. When he sat, the frayed ends of two of the ribbons gave slightly at the rivets and Lee fell two and a half extra inches. He raised his hands so the beer didn't foam. Peter laughed.

"Sorry," Peter said.

"Stop apologizing." God. Gay men are so sensitive, he thought.

"Oh, I brought you something," Peter said, not understanding the look.

He pulled a script out of his back pocket. It was Of Mice and Men. Lee was confused and said he didn't have a part, yet. Peter explained that he'd have more of a chance if he read the play first and knew the story a little. Lee hadn't even considered not having a chance. He had been asked to audition, after all. It was just a formality. Maybe he really didn't understand this theatre thing. Maybe I don't have a chance, he thought. Maybe I'm a vampire.

"Oh," Peter said. "Guess who's back in town?"

Lee couldn't remember anyone leaving. "Shane?"

"That private eye. He came into the theatre."

"What the hell does he want with me, now?" Lee was about to sputter.

"Nothing, he's moving here."

"Why?" He was still holding a good sputter in reserve.

"Because he wasn't a very good private eye."

"Oh," he said, putting the sputter away for another time. "Just making sure. You know we're negotiating the divorce, don't you?"

"Oh."

"She has a really hot shot lawyer."

"Oh."

"Damn her."

"Oh."

"Do you really think I don't have a chance to get the part?"

"What?" Now, Peter was confused. "I never said you didn't have a chance."

"Yes you did."

Peter bumped his beer and it started to topple. He caught it before it tipped over. Then the foam bubbled over the top like a volcano. He grabbed it and stuck it in his mouth to catch most of the beer, but some spilled on the Twister mat and the floor. Lee involuntarily glared at Peter as if he were a stupid, stupid child, then composed himself. Maybe now would be a good time to sputter.

"Oh, man, I'm really sorry," Peter said after he swallowed. He felt like he was going to be put in the stockade. He was sure there was one up here somewhere.

"No," Lee said, sternly, jumping up to get a towel. "It's all right. Really."

Peter said he'd get it and got up to look for something to clean up with. Lee waved him away and started mopping off the table. Peter tried to wipe the floor with his sleeve, and Lee grabbed his arm and gently set him back on the couch, handed him the beer, told him to be careful, and finished cleaning, all the while gritting his teeth through his smile.

When Peter left, Lee wondered what he could do about the brewery smell.

Wait a minute, he thought, forgetting the mess. Why the hell is that stupid dick moving here? Then he remembered to be embarrassed about someone having seen his place. He sat down and guzzled his beer. It hurt all the way down. Then he remembered that men in their thirties don't guzzle beer. Then he remembered he had to go to work.

Dinner was slow. There were two people at the counter and a group of four people in a booth. Matt asked Twain if he could go home to study, and after looking at him very oddly for an unusually long time, Twain nodded and asked Lee to go out and take his place. Lee threw his apron down and said he quit. Twain smiled at him with an "okay, that's funny but don't ever do it again" look. Lee smiled and went out front.

"Lee," Abby said when he came up to the table to see if they needed anything. "Just the person I need. Why don't you tell these philistines how good this concert can be."

"Okay," Lee said. "What concert?"

"I have an extra ticket to the Night of Blues concert for Friday night at the college and my friend can't come."

"Kim?"

"No, she hates that kind of music. Just like these knuckle heads."

Lee dutifully turned to the group.

"A night of blues at a good college auditorium can be a very pleasant evening," he said, then turned to Abby. "How was that?"

They all laughed. One of her friends, the albino midget one, said that if Lee liked blues so much she should take him. (Geoff? Yes, Steve. Nothing? About what? Um... Nothing.) He smiled, refilled a couple of coffees and went behind the counter. Twain's newspaper was folded neatly on the edge of the sink. The headline announced that River Bend County had just repealed the anti-prohibition laws. Now it was dry. (That's not fair, Geoff.) Dry, dry, dry. No alcohol. (It's not funny, man.) Especially beer. (Okay, I get it. I'll behave.) Lee picked up the paper and saw that it was one of those novelty ones from a carnival. (Albino dwarf?)

Abby came up to the counter. Lee noticed her sweatshirt, which said "I Like Ike" and had a picture of Tina.

"Jake had a good idea, there, Silver Fingers," she said. "Those plebeians wouldn't know good music if it fell on them. I know you'd enjoy it. Would you like to go?"

"Sure. Okay. Why not? I suppose. What the hell. How much is the ticket?"

"It's only twelve-fifty. Buy me a burger afterwards, and we'll call it square."

"Okay, Cole-Porter-Knowing-Person."

She looked at him like Twain had looked at Matt.

"Okay, so I'm not good at nick-names," Lee said and slunk back to tally their check. Maybe he should have called her "Thumbs."

The buildings of the campus were mostly old brick or new concrete box-like structures. There was a water tower in the middle of the grounds painted with the initials R.B.C.C. and a picture of a toothy squirrel. A few patches of melting snow still clung to the ground in the shadows of the trees and taller buildings. The air was crisp, and the only clouds were those emanating from people's mouths and nostrils. The air smelled faintly like cold vanilla beans or clean laundry. The stars were frosty, there was a startlingly bright half-moon and the sky was dark and clear and in need of a shave.

The crowd gathering in front of the Sir William Ramsay Memorial Auditorium was strangely invigorating and oddly unsettling. They were eclectic, ranging from teens to octogenarians and reminded Lee of the crowds at concerts he and what's-her-name used to go to in Chicago, (Her name is Beverly. I know, Pismire,) huddled into their winter coats chatting amiably and moving in a wave past the ticket takers toward the inviting light and warmth of the lobby. (Beverly Harris. I said I know. From Chicago.)

"I don't know why they named it after him," Lee said when he saw the raised gold letters on the front of the building. "Pierre Janssen is the one who discovered it."

"Yeah, but Ramsay actually found some here on Earth. What good is discovering a gas if you can't fill a balloon with it?"

"Good point," Lee said in falsetto, then passed gas. (He'd never bark in front of a woman, Geoff. It was silent and he blamed it on Ramsay.)

When they found their seats, Abby took off her coat. Lee anticipated the wit of her sweatshirt. She was wearing a smart blouse with lace. He was strangely disappointed. The seat reminded him of something.

"Oh, God," he said.

"What?"

"I have an audition tomorrow for Of Mice and Men."

"And he acts, too."

"I just got really nervous about it. I mean I'm prepared and everything. I read the play." He started breathing heavily. "I'm sure they want me to play George. I'm way too small to be Lennie."

Abby was duly impressed and told him he'd do fine. He started hyperventilating. A long, low clarinet note pierced his heart, I mean the air, the lights went down and a single spotlight hit the sparkling gold drapes which slowly opened as the rest of the River Bend Community College Jazz Ensemble joined the music. A thrill ran up Lee's spine and mixed uncomfortably with the nausea in his gut. Abby grabbed his forearm and turned to him with a smile.

"Good, aren't they?"

After the concert was over, Lee asked Abby if there was a good steak house in town. She said she didn't eat meat and insisted that all she really wanted was a burger. She suggested the House of Flapjacks out on the highway. By his shudder she surmised he didn't want to go there and they compromised on American Bun Stand which was only a couple of furlongs from the campus. He followed behind her small American sedan. Her bumper had "And My Hair is Vivid Plaid" painted on it and a sticker that said "I Liked Ethel Better". On the way, they passed a two-story house that reminded Lee strangely of a dirty aquarium and sweet wine coolers.

American Bun Stand was brightly lit, steel and Formica and glass. The waitresses wore white blouses, skirts, shoes and stockings with pink aprons and bonnets and there were polished hood ornaments and autographed photos of fifties and sixties television writers on the walls. Lee put a quarter in the little Select-O-Matic on the table top and pushed A-51 which should have been He's a Tramp by Peggy Lee. Happy Birthday by the Chipmunks started playing. Abby smiled mischievously.

"You knew about that, didn't you?" Lee asked.

She ordered her burger. He ordered a foot-long hot dog with sauerkraut, chili, sliced jalapeños, chopped onions, horseradish sauce, Dijon mustard, pickle relish, Cheddar and Muenster cheese, bacon bits, diced tomato, radishes, green olives, black olive paste, sauteed mushrooms, grilled scallions, roasted garlic, anchovies, capers, Rocky-Mountain oysters, fried Spam and a large basket of fries. They both ordered beer. They laughed and joked about the concert, about the lady with the tall hair that sat in front of the man with binoculars who sat right next to Lee, who sat next to Abby, who sat next to the man with the white cane. When their food came, Abby started singing Blues in the Night, and Lee shushed her, got bing cherry colored around the cheeks, and smiled weakly.

At the next table the Dalai Lama was just finishing up his bacon cheese burger and chili fries, playing Mortal Kombat on a Game Boy. I mean Cher, finishing up her Poor Boy, playing the field. Then funny stuff happened and we won another award.

"You sure this place is okay?" Abby asked when Lee got quiet for a moment.

"Sure, why?"

"Well, you seemed to have a fairly strong reaction to the House of Flapjacks. I didn't think you'd been in town long enough to have a history."

"Ah. Well. Um... My wife stayed at the motel across the street from there. When she came to visit me. From Chicago. My ex-wife. I mean my um... soon to be ex-wife. She just filed for divorce. I mean, I left. But it was because she was..."

"Oh," Abby said. "I didn't mean to pry. I wasn't trying to get personal."

She took a large bite from her burger and washed it down with a dainty sip of beer.

"It's okay, really. I left her but I wasn't actually thinking about divorce. She came here to get me to sign away the house, and when I didn't she filed for divorce. I thought I was going to get money from half the house and half the money from the antiques, but they just want to give me half the antiques. Andrew told me yesterday. The actual antiques. I can't take half the antiques. I'd have to go to Chicago to pick them up and where the he... I mean heck would I put them? There's no room at Twain's. I just want the cash. I asked Andrew why I couldn't just have the cash, and he said they didn't have to sell them, they just have to give me half. Andrew's my lawyer. He was at that party. He's taking it on contingency. I think. I told him she doesn't want to part with half her precious antiques, she was just doing that to fu... I mean spite me. Then I said she just wants me to tell her to keep the damn things. Andrew said that's divorce for you. He said he had an idea and that he was going to call her lawyer in the middle of next week. I asked why he wouldn't just do it first thing on Monday, and he said he wanted them to sweat a little. Now, I'm sweating. He said to trust him. What choice do I have? Oh. I'm sorry. I... um..." he said and tidied up the little area by the Select-O-Matic where the salt, pepper, napkin holder, menus and steak sauce sat. "I didn't mean to... So. Good concert, huh?"

"That's okay," Abby said, "I've always considered life history a condiment. Like mayonnaise without the calories. Or fudge."

"Who are you?"

"Abby," she said, extending her hand. "Radio advertising account representative of the month. Last June. At your service."

He laughed and shook her hand.

"Oh, my God, look at the time," he said.

Instead, she looked around the diner. They were the last customers, the lights were dim, the waitresses were all standing around looking at them emphatically then looking at their watches, and the fry cook was playing Jarts.

"I have to open the diner in the morning. And then the audition. Oh, God. The audition."

"Do you want dessert?" their waitress said, not really wanting to know, and put the check on their table.

"What do you have?" Abby asked demurely.

"Fudge," the waitress said, looking at her like she would a small animal that she had found in the butter tin. "Old, dry fudge."

"You're not working for a tip, are you?" Abby said.

"No, sweetheart. Won't change my life, and I got company tonight."

The bill was exactly twenty-one dollars and thirty-seven cents. Lee left a three dollar sixty-three cent tip, and he and Abby were even. (Hey, why doesn't someone invent money where you just write in the amount yourself? They could call it "Many Money." It's called a check, Steve. Oh. Whatever made you think of.... What? Never mind. On with the evening. Money made of metal?)

They both assured the other that they'd enjoyed themselves, went to their cars and drove in different directions through the snow that fell like a million white fireflies in the light from the half moon. Frank Sinatra sang Shake Your Groove Thang on the radio and the lights in River Bend all went off.

Lee tossed and turned all night. He dreamt that he was walking down into his parents' basement wearing only a pair of old thread-bare boxer shorts and finding Beverly's lawyer, who looked like a rottweiler and kept calling him Mike, who was holding an audition for the Broadway production of Of Mice and Men there, expecting him to already know all of George's lines and read them with Loretta Switt. Water was dripping down the thin, steep rotting stairs and the lights were dim, hiding the hundreds of people who were there to judge his performance. His mother kept trying to kiss him for luck, and she had grown a moustache and looked like Beverly. He woke up because the sweat that this dream caused caused him to slip off the couch. When he got back to sleep, Andrew started chasing him with a Nerf dog.

Lee bent over the folding table set up at the entrance to the auditorium to sign his name and write "George" next to that in the column that was headed "Part Seeking". He was still shaking a little from the dream. Or, perhaps, from the fact that Peter didn't think he'd get the part. He stood just as the director walked by. The director shook Lee's hand and said he was glad he showed up, then glanced down at the sign-in page.

"No," he said. "I didn't intend for you to try out for George."

"Oh," Lee said, confused. "But I'm way too small for Lennie."

The director smiled and told him that he could audition for any part he thought he could do, but the role he'd had in mind for him was Carson.

"Oh," Lee said again, a little more confused. He didn't remember Carson. Which one was Carson? One of the ranch hands. He hadn't paid attention to the ranch hands when he read the play. Which one was Carson? Not the old one with only one hand. Not the cocky son with the Vaseline in the glove. The black guy who lives in the lean-to by the barn? No, probably not him.

"Oh," he said again, absolutely perplexed. "Isn't he the one that kills the dog?"

Andrew tapped him on the shoulder and said, "Hi."

Lee jumped, then said, "hi," and asked which part he was trying out for.

"I just came for moral support, your first audition and all."

They walked into the theatre and found a seat toward the back. Andrew told him that Mr. Washington had called late on Friday and Beverly wanted half of Lee's CD's. Lee spat out his drink. (He wasn't drinking.) Lee got a drink and spat it out. Andrew asked how many CD's he had.

"I don't know, around three hundred forty-seven, I guess, if you don't count the double sets. Could we maybe just send her half of what they're worth?"

"They want the CD's. How much are they worth?"

"I have no idea," Lee said, not wanting to admit that he had been offered fifty cents for The Cars Greatest Hits. "Probably about a hundred seventy-three fifty."

"They say they want the CD's. You'll be fine. Trust me."

The audition was held on the stage in front of the inner-city-funk set for The Wiz which was opening the next week. The set was slightly distracting. The director introduced himself, his assistant director (who would also be the stage manager), the set designer, the prop master and the producer, who all sat together in the audience with clipboards and whispered among themselves. He then gathered all the people who were auditioning up onto the stage. There were several people who stayed in their seats, and Lee assumed they were also there to be somebody's moral support. The director had the people on the stage stand in a circle holding hands and one by one tell their names and one interesting thing about themselves. Lee felt excruciatingly embarrassed to be in the circle, and the only detail he could think of about himself was that he hadn't thrown up in seventeen years. As soon as he said it, he remembered that first day at Twain's. But he hadn't actually thrown up, then. He felt like throwing up. Then the director had each person look at the person five people to the left from them and recall that person's name and detail. Most people could remember at least the detail or the name. Lee remembered both about his person. The person who had Lee couldn't remember either about him. Lee wanted very badly to go home.

After that, the director chose one of them and had him stand in the center of the group and choose a simple, repetitive movement. One by one, he had everyone join him with another movement until there was a big "human machine" on the stage. The movement Lee chose was wiggling his left index finger back and forth. His face felt too hot for anything else. When that was done, the director had them all return to their seats and sat whispering with his entourage. The relief Lee felt to be getting off the stage was corporeal and slunk behind him as he returned to his seat.

"What was that all about?" Lee asked Andrew when he sat back down, trying to look like he hadn't really, really, really hated it.

"They're called Theatre Games," Andrew said, trying to look like he didn't really, really, really agree with Lee. "I suppose they can be useful in acting classes to help the students build some sort of trust and group sense, but they're just embarrassing in auditions. Who needs group sense when only a very small percentage of these people will be cast."

"Then why did he have us do them?"

"It's what directors who don't know what they're doing do when they want to look like they know what they're doing. Oh, I suppose," Andrew added diplomatically, "they can break the ice in the group. There is that. I suppose."

The director got back up on the stage, grandly thanked everyone for coming and explained how the audition would proceed: He would call groups of two or three people up to read scenes. He may or may not call any actor up more than once. When he was done with an actor he would let them go. He would call those who were to come to the call backs, which would be held the next day, late that afternoon. On Monday, they could all call the theatre front office to find out if they had been cast, and when and where the first rehearsal and call time would be. He bowed, sat back down and called the first group.

The guy who had played Charlie and the Doctor got up on stage with another fellow and read the part of Curly, the old man with the missing hand. He pulled his hand up into his sleeve. He was really awful, but when he was done, several people in the audience applauded wildly. Andrew wrinkled his nose. He looked displeased. Okay, he looked appalled.

"I've always hated it when they have everyone watch the auditions."

"How do they usually do it?"

"They don't have everyone watch the auditions."

Lee was called up with two other actors and read the scene where Carson convinces Candy to let him kill the dog. When he sat down again, Andrew patted him on the arm and smiled. He felt a lot better, then. Even about killing the dog. The director had him come up one more time with a buxom blond, then thanked him and reminded him that he'd be making calls later that afternoon. As Lee and Andrew left the theatre, a young blond man came in past them. Lee stopped, then turned, just as the young man did. There was a moment when Lee could hear the young man's heart beating. Or was that the thrum of the heating system?

"Oh," the young man said, with a "you aren't going to hurt me, are you" look. "Hi."

"What are you doing here?" Lee asked finally, when his mind had stopped processing. He had finally become resigned to his mind processing, and had decided to just deal with it when it happened.

"Oh. Yeah. I'm starting completely new, here, and I saw something about an audition. I've never auditioned for anything. Except basketball. I was pretty good at that in high school. So I figured I should try. Out. I'm not too late, am I? I'm Jim, remember?" he said, putting out his hand tentatively, in case Lee was packing heat. "Jim Ackerman. My father liked the Rockford..."

"Yeah, I remember," Lee said, shaking his hand so as not to appear too much like he didn't like the guy as much as he didn't like the guy. "Peter told me you were in town. Welcome to River Bend."

Jim noticed the faint odor of kitchen grease. Ex-private eyes noticed that sort of thing.

The phone at Twain's rang several times that afternoon and evening, but none of the calls were from the director of Of Mice and Men asking Lee to the call backs. He jumped every time it rang. Needlessly.

On Sunday, while scraping uneaten scrambled eggs and hash browns covered in ketchup and pepper into the trash, Lee's heart jumped and, after a moment, he realized it was because the call backs were to start at that precise moment. The only way he could get his heart to behave itself was to tell it that he had been asked to audition, that it was just a formality, that he had prepared and read the play, and that he would just call Peter at the theatre the next day to find out when rehearsals started.

That worked until his heart fell, and, after another moment, he realized it was because he was going to have to separate his CD's into ones he would keep and ones he would send to Beverly. He got it to behave itself that time by telling it he would put it off until tomorrow.

The next day, in order to not sound too anxious, he waited until after the breakfast crowd left before calling the theatre. Stella answered. Lee swore silently to himself, and fingered a quarter in his pocket.

"Oh, hello, Lee," Stella said, with an edge of "why are they all calling me" in her voice. "Let me look."

There was a long moment. He heard paper shuffling, then she came back to the phone.

"Okay. Lee Harris. Let's see. Lee. No," she said, with an edge of "I like this part of my job" in her tone. "I don't see your name on here. I am so sorry. Better luck next time."

"Wait," he said, and when she came back on the phone asked who did get the part.

"Which part were you up for?"

"Carson," Lee said. "The one who kills the dog."

"I'm familiar with Of Mice and Men. Let's see. Ah. Jim Ackerman. Good choice. It's a fellow named Jim Ackerman."

Lee's dumb was founded and he tried to tell her so, but she hung up. He stood holding the dead phone. He kept holding it while the line started to squeal. He kept holding it when the recording of the lady came on telling him to be a good chap and hang up, now, in a voice that sounded like a cross between Mel Torme and Florence Henderson. While she was telling him what to do if it were an emergency, Twain took the phone out of his hand, put it on the cradle, and gently offered him a Life Saver. Lee nodded numbly, took one, then turned to go upstairs. Now would be a good time to sort CD's.

The first CD he pulled out of the box was ABBA. He could give her that one. She liked that one. He didn't, but she did. He couldn't give her that one. Twain called up the stairs and said that there was a phone call. Maybe that's it, he thought. Maybe the director wanted to tell him in person that he got George. That's why Ackerman got Carson. That's it. He had, after all, personally asked him to audition. Yeah. And maybe I'll turn into an ICBM and fall through the floor and detonate all over the diner.

"Hi, Lee, sorry about Stella," Peter said. "She could have let you down a little more gently. But a rose by any other name still has thorns. You okay?"

"I suppose," Lee said into the phone. He tried to turn toward the wall so no one in the diner could see him in case he started to cry or something equally unmanly. "I don't know who I was kidding. Tarkinton was kind of a fluke, I guess. I'm an accountant, not an actor."

"You're not giving up with one rejection, are you?" Peter said with a laugh which he tried to stifle. "I'll bet even Andrew has not gotten a part once or twice. Well, maybe not Andrew, but everyone else. There's a limited amount of roles in a play. You can't cast everyone. Anyway, there'll be another audition in another month or so. It goes on."

"He cast Jim Ackerman, for God's sake. In my part. And he didn't even do any fucking theatre games."

Twain handed him the cuss jar, and he willingly dropped a quarter into it.

"Well, Jim Ackerman wouldn't mind being the one who kills the dog," Peter said. "He's starting completely new, here, he's up for anything."

Lee allowed himself to smile. Peter must have heard it.

"Besides, it's not as if you weren't cast in a Broadway play. Or a movie. It's only River Bend."

"Yeah," Lee said. "And the director did do Theatre Games at the audition and let everybody watch."

"See?" Peter said. "Feel better?"

"I'll think about it. Thanks, Peter."

Lee turned back to the room. Everyone there was watching him. He turned pale and went back upstairs to sort CD's.

A little over a week later, Andrew called Lee and asked him to come over. Lee said he'd be there as soon as lunch was over, and went back to work wondering what was up.

Stella had just finished lunch and was putting on her lipstick, and Peter was trying to pluck a misbehaving beard hair when Jim brought the bucket and mop back to the office, whistling some stupid fast food hamburger jingle. He asked where he should put them.

"You don't look bad for someone who's been scrubbing toilets," Stella said with a soft purr, then closed her compact mirror with a controlled click.

Peter got up to lead him down the hall to the janitorial closet.

"Want to go get a beer after work?" Jim asked Peter after he locked the closet back up.

"Um," Peter said. "Sure."

Meanwhile, across town, a shot rang out. I mean Lee tightly gripped the railing on Andrew's porch as he slowly, carefully climbed up the flight of three stairs. He steadied himself and rang the doorbell.

"Ring, ring," it said. He didn't react to it.

When Andrew's wife opened the door, he looked down to make sure there wasn't any snow or ice under his feet before putting out his hand to shake. As he followed her into the foyer, he tripped on the woven straw welcome mat.

Andrew was sitting at his desk and gestured for Lee to sit.

"Here," he said. "Sign this."

"What is it?"

Andrew smiled a big smile and told him it was the agreement between him and Beverly. That she would sell the house and give him half the money. That she would be satisfied with the money for her half of the CD's. Which she agreed would total one seventy-three fifty. And that she would be sending him money for half the appraised value of the antiques within thirty days.

A strange sound came out of the back of Lee's throat. He tried to say something, but the sound cracked again. He closed his mouth to moisten his tongue and tried again.

"You're a genius! How did you get them to agree to that?"

"I told them you wanted Excalibur."

"But that's her baby," Lee said with a stutter.

"I know."

"I can't take Excalibur. I don't want Excalibur. What would I do with Excalibur?"

"She couldn't take that chance. Believe me, José Washington tried to convince her to. She's going to sell the Beemer to raise your half of the antiques. Your part will be minimum fifteen thousand dollars. Cash. I'll know the exact amount by the end of the week. You'll have a check within a month. Then we wait for the money from the house."

"You're a genius,"Lee said, trying not to smile quite so largely, afraid his face might break.

"You're just realizing that?" Andrew said, and handed Lee a pen. Lee asked him what he thought of the agreement. He told him that it was good, that they could still fight if they wanted to but why.

Lee breathed in, placed the pen against the paper, breathed in again without breathing out first, held his breath, and, by force of will, signed with a quick stroke then stared at Beverly's smudged signature above his own. Then he slowly handed the pen back to Andrew.

"How do you feel?"

"I don't know," Lee said, surprised to discover that he really didn't know. He breathed in again and held the bridge of his nose. "We were married eight years."

He composed himself and looked up at Andrew. Andrew understood the look.

"What do I owe you?"

"Well, to begin with, you owe me a beer. I'll come and get you at the diner after dinner."

Lee nodded, smiled and was about to get up to leave, then stopped.

"What if she'd just given me the dog?"

"She didn't."

Lee nodded again and left. He drove back to Twain's in a vacuum, staring at a point straight ahead, huddled into his winter coat, numb and shivering, thinking about the stupid rat dog.

The Office was fairly full of college students drinking dollar beer, playing bad pool, tossing quarters into the cuss jar and trying to end up with someone for the evening. The boys were trying to impress, the girls were trying to act unimpressed and the old woman with the fur coat and jewelry sat in the corner rolling her own and patting all the men on the fanny.

Peter found an unoccupied table. Jim brought the beers and sat.

"You're gay, aren't you?" Jim said as Peter sipped his first sip.

Peter spit it out. His mind raced in fifteen different directions, all avoiding North by Northwest. His face flushed. He wondered why Jim would suspect that. He wondered why Jim would ask. He wondered what Jim would do if he said yes. He wondered, wondered who, who, who wrote the book of love.

"Who told you that?" he asked, his voice strangely strident.

"No one. I just see you. I see where your eyes go." Jim said, and Peter looked at the ceiling. "Ex-private dicks notice that sort of thing."

Peter's mind went North by Northwest. What does he want? Why does he want to know? Does everyone see that? Am I giving myself away with every breath? I wonder who writes this crap?

"Um," he said. "Oh."

"You want to maybe go out sometime?"

"Um," Peter said, trying to swallow, trying to breathe, wondering what he meant by that. Does he mean go out, or does he mean "go out"? And if he means go out and I think "go out" what'll he do to me? But if he means "go out" and I think go out, what will he think of me? He means go out. I'm sure of it. He's straight. I'm sure of it. I see how he looks at Stella. I've seen where he looks when he looks at Stella. Gay men notice that sort of thing. And he's talked about girlfriends. Lots of girlfriends. But we're going out right now, so he must mean "go out". Oh, God, I need some cheese.

"Sure," he whispered.

Peter looked up and saw Lee and Andrew come into the bar. He wanted to hide under the table.