Lee could hear a soft whine as he made his way across the dark stage lit only by the single bare ghost light. The light made the brightly colored set for The Wiz look like a scene from Eraserhead. Lee refused to shiver. The sound grew louder when he went back into the men's dressing room. For a moment he imagined that the sound was coming from Roger's room, that dark maw to the side that took the space between the men's and women's dressing rooms. He walked quickly past the maw but the sound was still ahead of him. He opened the back door of the dressing room. The sound was clearly coming from the tin shack that stood behind the theater and served as the scene shop.

Bear was standing at the table saw, covered in sawdust. The sound from the saw could be heard for miles and miles and miles and miles. (Who sang that? Yes. No, they're on first.) The room smelled of sweet, scorched wood. It smelled really good, like pipe tobacco in the distance on a cold day. Lee breathed it in. Then he sneezed it back out again with four sharp shakes of his head.

He had to shout three times before Bear heard him. Bear hit the switch and pushed the goggles up into his hairline. (Isn't Bear almost bald? Yes, the goggles are on the top of his head. Toward the back. Why don't you just say he pushed them into his hair line fracture? Go play, Steve.)

"Oh, hi," Bear said, then spit sawdust out of his mouth and rubbed it with the back of his hand, which was covered with sawdust. He spit again. "Grab that parrot."

"Arrr," Lee said.

"I mean that plane. Make the wood look old and gnarly. Plane the edges unevenly and leave some raw edges and burrs. Like that," Bear explained, pointing to a few lengths of wood that, but for the freshly cut surface, looked like they had been taken out of an old barn.

"I'm used to using tools to make bad wood look good."

"Welcome to theater," Bear said as he roughly brushed sawdust off his forearm then started to replace his goggles.

"Yeah," Lee said as he picked up the plane. "About that."

Bear let the goggles stay on the top of his head, and brushed sawdust from his moustache as he waited for Lee to continue. It floated down and rested gently on the hair that protruded from the top of his tee-shirt.

"I've been thinking," Lee said, then waited for dramatic pause. Damn, he thought. I would never have waited for dramatic pause in Chicago. "When we finish this set, I'm going to stop volunteering here."

Bear raised his eyebrows. Both of them. They were both covered in sawdust. Some floated gently down to the bridge of his nose, and he absent-mindedly brushed it away with the tips of his fingers.

"I don't know what I was doing here in the first place. I'm not an actor. I never even saw a play until I came here. Well, there was Chorus Line. I hated it. I've had fun, but I'm kidding myself. I'll never be an actor. And I'm tired of finding myself doing things like waiting for the dramatic pause."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Bear said. "You got a really nice butt."

(STEVE!!! Bear is not gay. He has a moustache. He's artistic. Like I said. I've signed you up for sensitivity training. Tried it. I pissed the instructor off too much. I'm not surprised.)

"I'm sorry to hear that. I've enjoyed working with you."

He put his goggle back on and hit the switch. The saw threw fine dust in a gentle, insistent arc like the rooster tail behind a speed boat or the meaning behind a mixed metaphor, and almost half of it landed on Bear. The sound that filled the room comfortably blanketed it and deadened any need for conversation. Lee felt the bond that only straight men can feel when they are in the same room completely ignoring each other.

An hour later, Bear turned the saw off, and Lee leaned the board he was mangling against the growing pile of other mangled boards. Bear sent Lee back to Roger's Room to get a few bags of powdered paint pigment. Lee stopped short and looked at Bear.

"Okay," he said. "I won't be here much longer. I have to know. Is Roger's room haunted?"

"Yes."

The answer was so simple and straightforward that Lee had trouble breathing. He hadn't been sure his question was even serious until he had gotten the answer.

"About twenty-five years ago, I guess, the guy who was artistic director of the theater went in there to stoke the furnace. He'd been working alone and the theater was cold. It was about this time of year, I think. There was a puddle of stove oil on the floor and he skidded on it and fell. His foot slipped under a pipe and he hit his head on the floor. He woke up with a broken leg and started calling for help. They found him the next Monday, frozen stiff with his arm outstretched, his face mangled in a frozen, grotesque grimace, and frozen claw marks on the floor."

"Really?"

"No."

Lee tried to decide how to react to that story. His face must have done something strange, because Bear suddenly started laughing.

"I knew you were joking."

"No, you didn't. You're more gullible than Peter. He thought the Angel for Look Homeward Angel was Roger. Screamed like a little girl."

Lee's face got really red, and he turned to go get the paint. He quickly found the five colors Bear had asked for, then purposefully stood to prove he had known the room wasn't haunted. The theater groaned and he ran very quickly back to the scene shop.

After his shift was over, he stopped by the front office to say hi to Peter. Peter's chair was empty, and cobwebs had covered his desk. A thick layer of dust covered everything on his side of the room.

"Where's Peter?" Lee asked Stella.

"He called in sick this morning."

Cliche waited on the welcome mat, curled in a ball, shivering. Lee knocked on Peter's front door. At first there was no response. Then there was a strange sound like a lump adjusting itself on a couch, then more nothing. Lee knocked again. Then he banged.

"What?"

"It's me," Lee said, then, when there was no response, added, "Lee."

The sound of the lump moving on a couch got closer, then the door opened. Peter looked like hell. Well, maybe purgatory. With overalls. And large pores. Without a word, he lumped back to the couch, leaving the door opened. Cliche followed Lee in warily, making sure Peter didn't throw too much lumpness at him, then ran past and into the bedroom. Lee closed the door behind himself. There was an old, tattered copy of Tajar Tales on the floor in front of where Peter sat, next to a sauce pan full of a turkey carcass. The television was tuned to a frenetic sitcom featuring wacky adults and precocious children being snotty to each other. The sound was, thankfully, very low, so only a constant, insistent rumble underscored by frenetic computer generated laughter leaked into the room, leaving a puddle on the floor that Lee almost slipped on. He cleared a place on the couch for himself and sat. The room was, somehow, even more chaotic than usual. When Lee noticed, on the coffee table, right next to the tiny metal boot, a bowl that was encrusted with several layers of dried Colby, he knew something must be wrong with Peter. He pointed to it.

"The Dick?"

Peter's mind swirled with possible interpretations of that utterance. None of them made any sense. Lee waited for Peter to process. He was now accustomed to minds having to do that, and resigned to having to wait for it to happen.

"Jim?" he elaborated when he realized Peter's processing wasn't going to settle on any satisfactory conclusion.

Peter sighed and looked like he might cry. Lee was afraid the next question might open the floodgates and he would actually have to deal with a blubbering male person, but Peter was his friend.

"What happened?"

"I woke up Friday morning," Peter said with a small sob in his voice, "and the first thing I saw was the clock, which said six forty-two. The next thing I saw was Jim, fully dressed, sitting in the chair."

Cliche walked back into the room just in time to be hit in the forehead by the flashback. (Film school? Evergreen State. That's really obscure.)

Peter slowly sat up, letting the covers slide down his (Steve, close your eyes) naked body. He saw Jim's eyes dart away, and he grasped the edge of the blankets and slowly pulled them back up to his neck (you can open them again).

"Good morning," he tried.

Jim breathed in and opened his mouth, stopped, then opened his mouth again.

"I knew I'd be too inexperienced," Peter said. "I knew I'd be too clumsy. I'm so sorry. I knew I'd screw it up."

"No," Jim said. "It's not that. It's not you. It's me."

Peter tried not to cry. He was fairly sure he succeeded. He also tried to not roll his eyes. He wasn't so sure he succeeded with that.

"You're really fun, you cook good," Jim said. It sounded somehow written out and rehearsed. "I guess I'm just hopelessly straight. It's not that I don't want to be with you. I don't want to be with any man. I don't want to be with Brad Pitt. I don't want to be with Antonio Banderas. I don't want to be with Mr. T or Tom Cruise."

"What about Robert Redford?"

"Now or twenty-five years ago?"

Peter was really confused. About the whole conversation, not just the now or twenty-five year thing. He had been so sure that Jim had hated it the first time but Jim had asked him out again. Then he had been so sure he had loved it the second time, but here he was declaring his straightness.

"I needed to be sure," Jim explained.

"So this was kind of like the second Laughing Cow Cheese wedge."

"Good & Plenty," Jim said. "They don't look like licorice, you know. I always have to be sure. With both a white one and a pink one. I hate licorice. Tastes like medicine."

Jim shuddered slightly. Which didn't make Peter feel good at all. The blanket began to fall toward his chest during the conversation, but he lifted it securely around his neck like a barber's smock, not wanting to cause any further offense to this handsome young man who had had to suffer through two nights with him.

"I couldn't just leave because you fixed that wonderful dinner last night," Jim said. "It would have seemed so, what is the word?"

"Cruel?"

"I was actually thinking ungrateful."

Jim stood, reached out his hand to shake Peter's. Peter made sure his other hand kept the blanket securely in place. He had never been quite so ashamed of his nakedness before. Or, at least, aware of it. Actually, he realized, he had almost never been naked in front of anyone else. Except in high school gym. And there was that night in Barstow. But that has nothing to do with this flashback. They shook hands and Jim left, assuring him they'd see each other around. Peter slowly let the blanket slide back down his naked body (Geoff, you didn't warn me. Sorry. I need a Good & Plenty. White), and was surprised to discover tears leaking from his eyes. I'm the opposite of Liza Minnelli, he thought. I turn men straight. Or at least I'm the test by which they measure their straightness. He was certain he didn't like being litmus paper. He peeked at his wrist. Yep, blue.

"So you've been eating cheese for four days?" Lee asked.

God, straight men are so insensitive, Peter thought.

"God, straight men are so insensitive," he said, instead. "Yes. The one chance I have in decades, and he's hopelessly, incurably straight."

"Wait," Lee said. "I assumed you two... You know... um..."

"Duh," Peter said.

"Then he's gay."

"No, that's the whole point. He's straight."

"But he had sex with a man," Lee protested, realizing somewhere in the back of his mind that, besides a brief thought about his life with Beverly, that was the first time anyone had said that word in several installments, even though they had all been about that.

"Oh, so if I spent a night with a woman, even if I hated it, I'd be straight?" Peter was not happy with the turn of the conversation.

"Okay, so he's bisexual."

"No, Lee. He's straight."

"It's like losing your virginity," Lee said. "Once you do it, you can't go back. If he..."

"Look, if I thought he might even be bisexual, then I'd have to say it was that he didn't like me, not that he didn't like it. He's straight. Leave it at that."

God, gay men are so sensitive, Lee thought. Peter, on the other hand, just thought how bullheaded Lee was being.

"I just don't get bisexuality," Lee said, not leaving it at that. "It just doesn't make sense to me. It's like being both a Republican and a Democrat. Just choose."

Peter was nonplused. "People like both vanilla and chocolate ice cream," he said, pointedly ignoring Whigs, Tories and Libertarians. He wondered what ever happened to Ed Clark. He was getting frustrated. This was supposed to be about me crying on my friend's shoulder, not a philosophical dialogue on human sexuality.

"But they're both ice cream."

"And they're both people. Go take a class."

Peter went into his room and slammed the door. Lee was shocked by that. He looked down at Cliche, who was looking at him with a rather judgmental look.

"What?"

Cliche shook his head, then turned and left the room with his head up and his tail in the air.

"I was just trying to help," Lee said. "Jesus."

He sat for a moment waiting for Peter to get over it and come back into the living room.

"God, gay men are so immature," he said, and stormed out. If there had been a dog there, he would have kicked it. Well, not really. The absence of the dog made him think of kicking one, but if there had actually been a dog, he would have just kept being angry, which is ultimately what he did without the dog. No animals were harmed in the making of this installment. Get over it, PETA. The air was that deep gray with dark yellow at the edges that predicted an overpowering snow. That suited Lee just fine. Stupid gay man.

The Office was quiet. There were only two people at the bar, an Ag student with a 4H hat and a faded Doobie Bros 1977 World Tour tee-shirt that had part of the left arm-pit missing, and an art teacher whose lipstick matched his shoes. The woman with the fur coat was taking the night off. Abby bought the first round and brought it to the table. She was drinking a Cosmopolitan with orange bitters; refreshingly clear and light maroon. Kim had something pink and blended with a plastic sword spearing a maraschino cherry, pineapple wedge and slice of kiwi. The art teacher had a bourbon straight, and the Ag student drank whatever the special was, which that night was named after a rude act you could perform with something gray and murky.

Kim carefully pulled the fruit off the spear one by one with the tips of her fingernails, and placed them on a napkin in a neat row. She looked up at Abby as she picked up the cherry using the plastic sword like a fork.

"Okay, you've been smiling uncontrollably since you got out of your car," she said as she plucked the stem from the cherry like a small boy would pluck the wing from a fly. "What's going on?"

"I always smile," Abby said and took a petite sip of her drink.

"Not like that you don't," Kim said as she took a bite from the cherry, then set it down on the napkin.

"I'm a happy kind of girl." Her smile got even broader.

Kim speared the pineapple and nibbled at the tip of it instead of responding. Abby felt the edges of her face begin to hurt. She looked down at her drink to see if she could make her mouth behave. Even the forced frown felt like a smile so she gave up. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her sweatshirt, which said "My other sweatshirt is funnier than this one," and it caused her to give up all pretense.

"Okay," she said. "I kissed someone." (What, is she in sixth grade? No, Steve, you are. Eat poop.)

Kim was eating the kiwi from the edges in. She stopped long enough to ask, "Who? When?"

"Lee. Thanksgiving. In my front yard." Her face had started to calm down, but that was too much for it.

"Lee? Harris? From the diner?"

"I know he asked you out. You didn't seem interested. I hope you don't mind."

"God, no," Kim said and set the center part of the kiwi slice where all the seeds were down on the napkin and took a sip of her pink stuff. "Have you seen him since?"

Abby gave Kim a "did you take sensitivity training with Steve" look and told her that they had talked for four hours on the phone Friday after the diner had closed. Again for seventeen minutes Sunday afternoon.

"You haven't seen him since, then. So you haven't slept with him, yet."

"No, Kim," Abby said. "I'm saving myself for Ghandi."

Kim looked at her, bewildered, then finished the other half of the cherry. Abby loved Kim dearly and would do anything or go anywhere for her, but sometimes she wondered where she kept her brains. (That really hurt, Geoff. What, brains? No the sensitivity training look thing. No, it didn't. No. It didn't. I'm trying to be sensitive. No, you're not. No. I'm not. Here's a match. Cool!)

When they got outside, the gray and yellow sky had chameleoned into dark white, and snow seemed to swirl up from the ground in loose spirals. Kim and Abby both huddled closer into their coats and ran to their cars. As they drove home, the snow slowed and stopped, a tease for the kids in town who watched the sky, praying for an avalanche. Kids went to bed disappointed. Except Abby's nephew, who had just finished his first stink bomb and was looking forward to detonating it the next day in the cafeteria.

On Friday, Andrew called Lee in to his office because the check from the antiques had come. In the package from Mr. Washington's office were also papers he needed to sign to transfer the deed to the house to Beverly so she could sell it. While he signed the papers, he had the nagging sensation he had seen them before. He sat back in Andrew's leather chair and looked at the check. After expenses, his half of the appraised value of the antiques was seventeen thousand, two hundred fourteen dollars and one cent. He realized he would have to finally open a checking account.

"Aren't you going to ask about the penny?" Andrew asked.

It hadn't occurred to Lee that there was anything odd about the penny.

"But I had a joke all prepared," Andrew said, plaintively.

"Okay. What about the penny?"

"It doesn't work, now."

Lee opened his account in the River Bend Mutual Farm and Home Financial Savings and Loan. When presented with a choice for check design, he looked over the ones with Disney and Warner Bros® characters, with rainbows, with mountain lakes, with Snoopy and Woodstock and cute kittens and puppies©, with lighthouses and gardens. There were flower designs and whales, trees and endangered species. Checks with wheat and checks with rice. He chose the green ones with darker green wavy lines™. Checks should look like checks, he thought.

He called Peter to let him know the check had come. Stella said she'd give him the message. Peter never returned the call. He called Abby. After they talked for twenty-even minutes, Abby asked what he was going to do next.

"Look for a place, I suppose."

She offered to help. They made a date for the next afternoon. She'd bring the newspaper, he'd bring the paint brush and Mazola (Steve. What? Never mind) I mean the stiffy (You should have stopped me when you had the chance) lunch.

When Lee put the phone down, he felt Twain looking at him. He turned and Twain was, indeed, looking at him.

"Yes?"

"You're moving out," Twain said.

"I guess so."

"I can't afford to pay you more than the hundred bucks."

"I know," Lee said. "I don't know what I'm going to do, really. I haven't even thought about looking for work, I just decided to look for a place to live. I suppose I can tell you I'll stay till the end of the month at least. I don't know. I have to think about what I'm going to do. I don't know. Now I sound like Peter. Damn gay man."

Twain nodded and went back into the kitchen. He looked a little hurt, which puzzled Lee. Does he expect me to stay up in the attic my entire life, he thought. Why is everyone being so weird, all of a sudden?

After the Saturday breakfast rush Lee joined Abby at a booth. They sat on the same side, poring over a red plastic basket of french fries and The River Bend Bee. The first ad they saw was for an apartment in Old Town. Lee said they should look at that. Abby looked at him like his head had just turned paisley.

"Old Towns are usually quaint," he said.

"In River Bend, Old Town is just old. Let's keep looking." She looked down again, then stopped. "Let's start at the beginning. What are you looking for?"

"Mr. Goodbar."

"Ha ha."

"I don't know. A place with a bedroom. A place with windows. A place in the sun."

"A room with a view?"

"The house of the seven gables."

"Little house on the prairie?"

"The house of Usher."

"That fell. The house of wax?"

"Harvest home?"

"The longest yard?"

"Citizen Kane?"

They looked at each other, waiting for the other one to laugh.

"Here's one in a fairly good neighborhood," Abby said, finally, when neither one did. "And it doesn't seem too expensive."

They marked three possibilities and climbed into Lee's SUV. They would have marked more, but the River Bend Bee didn't have a very large classified section. The section advertising pornographic movies was seven pages. The obituary section was ten pages but listed everyone who might die in the next month or so in seven counties. And, of course, the police log. Lee played Invention No. 8 by Bach on the steering wheel as he drove. Abby sang along.

Lee loved the first apartment they saw, but Abby thought the lines were all wrong. He finally had to agree with her when he bumped into the kitchen doorway. The second home they looked at smelled like old salad dressing and Depends. They held their breath all the way back to the car. After they shut and locked the doors, they exhaled in unison, then started laughing and tried to come up with the perfect description of the odor. They settled on "icky," and Lee started driving.

"So have you heard from Peter, yet?" Abby asked.

Lee shook his head. He still wasn't sure why Peter wasn't returning his calls. He didn't know why Twain was acting so weird. He didn't know what else to do. He didn't know what he had done. He was glad Abby wasn't mad, at least.

"You should just apologize."

"I didn't do anything wrong," Lee said.

They had to drive through downtown, such as it was, to get to the next place. On the sidewalk outside of Mom's Used Records, the man in the John Deere hat was on the top of a ladder which leaned against a lamp post. He was hanging a silvery garland from a wire that was stretched across the street. It looked like a tinsel boa shaped like a child's drawing of flapping bells. There were already garlands shaped like reindeer, trees, stars, angels and what Lee could only imagine must be tree ornaments hanging on wires that were evenly spaced down the street past Bubble Gum Alley all the way to the end. The man in the John Deere hat climbed down the ladder and moved it to the next light post as Lee turned the corner and left Christmas behind.

Nothing that they looked at that day seemed satisfactory, but Lee wasn't in a hurry. He had a place to stay until the end of the month, at least. Unless Twain got weird. Weirder. They decided to meet again after the breakfast rush the next day. Sunday seemed the perfect day to find a place to land. Lee felt normalcy creeping slowly, wonderfully, enticingly into his veins. He liked the feeling. It made him realize what he had been missing since that fateful day when he had seen the look in Beverly's eyes when she looked at the look in the Jerk's. It was heady and made his feet feel warm. It also made him impatient. When the normalcy had finally filled his circulatory system, he would no longer need to look for ways to reinvent his life. He had, he realized with a shudder, always hated people who reinvented themselves. It seemed like such a redundant, unnecessary, unneeded process.

That night, the storm that had peeked its head over the horizon on Monday descended like the wrath of a vengeful god and buried the town like salve on a hooker. By the time Lee descended the stairs from his lair in the morning, the snowdrift in front of Twain's had already reached the middle of the front window. There would be no customers until the plows had come through. He turned on the batter encrusted radio that sat on the shelf by the stove. The college DJ was in the middle of announcing that the county snow plows were snowed in. Lee heard a strange sound from the front of the diner that sounded like a swishing creak. All he needed was for Roger to want breakfast. He picked up a knife and backed up behind the center prep island. He looked at the knife, put it down and picked up a much larger one. Then he picked up an iron skillet. All he needed was chain mail. Now he really couldn't wait until the normalcy took over. The shuffling, creaking noise seemed to be moving closer, and he backed away and slowly bent his knees until his eyes were level with the top of the island. The apparition that floated into view was pure white and slightly fluffy. It shook, and seemed to dissipate into the room. What was left when it finished dissipating was Twain, holding a shovel.

"Isn't the coffee made, yet?" he said.

Lee set the knife and pan down on the lower shelf of the center island and tried to look as if that had been why he was stooping down there, then he stood slowly, making sure his knees were ready to hold his weight after their redundant bout of fear.

Twain sat at the counter drinking coffee and reading the paper. Lee sat two stools down poring over the classifieds. Every time he circled something, Twain muttered. At around ten, Lee finally had to admit they weren't going out that day to look for a place and called Abby.

"And I had a picnic lunch all packed and ready," Abby said.

Lee laughed. Abby didn't. Lee said he was sorry. Abby laughed. Lee didn't. Abby said she was sorry. Then they both laughed at the same time as they both said they were sorry.

"There's an old Jamaican saying about weather like this," Abby said.

"And that would be?"

"What the hell is all that white stuff all over the ground? Mon."

Lee laughed.

"No. Really," Abby said. "I'm part Jamaican. I should know."

Lee didn't know whether to laugh or not. This was getting ridiculous. Up until then, their humor had been so in sync. So peaches and cream. So tears for fears.

"You're really part Jamaican?"

"Actually, yes."

"Okay," he said. "What's the other part?"

Abby breathed in.

"Well. Um..." she said. "Part Chippewa. That's the cheekbones. Jamaican, the skin. Part Norwegian. Except lightening the Jamaican skin, I have no idea what that part gives me."

"Love of fjords?"

"No, I like Chevies. Maybe that huggable protective outer layer that keeps out the cold. Irish, a sense of dark humor and love of fjords. And my grandma was from Malta so I have Italian and French and Arab. Everybody conquered Malta at one time or other and all of them add mass to the butt and a lovely singing voice. Persian, the hair. Maybe that's the Jamaican, too. Persian must be the lips. And the eyes. We Persians have beautiful eyes. And German. Sales. What are you?"

"White."

Then a bus full of Hooters girls broke down in front of the diner. (No, Steve. No bus. No hooters. No girls.)

The town started moving again sometime in the middle of Tuesday. Lee and Abby made a date for Saturday afternoon. On their way to the first house on the list, Abby shouted for Lee to stop. Stopping suddenly on winter streets was problematic, but nothing happened that could have added drama to the story. When Lee calmed down enough to ask why she had requested the departure from the agreed upon schedule, she pointed at the tiny handmade "For Rent" sign stapled to a rickety post in the front yard of a strange, little, pale yellow house with a strange, little, pale green garage that was unattached because it was afraid to commit. Lee wasn't sure. Strange wasn't what he had in mind.

"It's darling," Abby said.

Darling, Lee could live with, so they got out and began to explore. The price listed on the sign was well within Lee's budget. The front door was open. Abby went in, and after a moment of extremely uncomfortable hesitation, Lee followed. The house smelled good, not like grease or old salad dressing or anything. The lines inside were solid. There was a stone fireplace in the front room, and a fairly good sized kitchen. The bathroom wasn't large but was laid out comfortably. Lee stood in the front doorway and looked out at the neighborhood. The houses on either side were brick and looked solid and steady. The trees in the neighborhood looked well established. A lot of them were willows, which Lee thought might remind him a bit too much of his foray into art, but the back yard was decidedly middle class and predictable. He breathed in the cold air that made the hairs in his nostrils stand on end.

"It's old," Lee said.

"It's established."

"It's drafty."

"It's airy. Breezy," Abby countered. "In the spring you're going to get the smell of all the flowers."

"It's not near anything."

"Everything is near everything in River Bend, Lee. It's not Chicago."

Lee didn't want to admit that he was really beginning to like the place. It did feel steady. When she mentioned that he could set up a workshop in the basement, he shook his head and conceded. He was just going to rent it, after all. How long could the lease be, six months? A year? They took down the number from the sign and drove back to the diner.

Peter and Stella had just finished counting receipts from the weekend. The December show always did well, but The Wiz looked like it might break the records set by last year's holiday production of Equus. Peter was in the hallway on his way to the men's room and saw Lee coming back from the scene shop, covered in brown and pale yellow paint splatters. He tried to decide if there was enough time to duck back into the office, or, perhaps, run to the restroom. The moment of indecision froze him for that moment too long. Lee faltered when he saw him, which Peter noticed, which made him angry with himself for not ducking back into the office or running into the bathroom. Maybe he could have snuck into the script closet, but that would have just been too trite. And he wasn't really very good at snucking.

"Hey, Peter," Lee said, trying unsuccessfully to sound like they weren't mad at each other.

Peter just stared at him, not willing to pretend, but not sure what he could say that wouldn't sound just too bitchy. The result was that his face looked like a small puppy locked behind an accordion gate. Lee stopped, waiting for Peter to get over it and join him in his pretense, and when the puppy look didn't go away, he shook his head and left the theater. Peter could feel the puppy look turn into that of a bull behind an electrified barbed wire fence. He completely forgot that he had to pee. He turned to storm back into the office, but saw Stella standing in the doorway with an odd look on her face, like that of a fly on a wall. He turned to go to the bathroom and saw Jim coming out of the theater, whistling a happy tune. Off key, but happy. The script closet was looking very inviting in oh so many ways. He sidled toward the men's room. Jim didn't see him, thankfully, because Agnes came out of the theater and caught his attention, giving Peter just enough time to disappear. He closed and locked the stall door, in case Jim was in the hallway headed for his own relief break, but his plumbing refused to co-operate. It was quite frightened that Jim could see behind stall doors. He stood there for several minutes. The door to the bathroom didn't open. He noticed an edge of dirty gray in the corner between the floor and wall. Then he saw a spider. Now he knew he wasn't going to be able to pee.

"Quit looking at me," he said.

Then the spider threw an Ohio Blue Tip at him. (Different spider, Steve. Oh. They're both in the theater, maybe it's a clan thing. Sort of like church mice? Um. Yeah.)

The landlord of the house returned Lee's call late Monday afternoon. Lee met him Tuesday afternoon to fill out the application. On Thursday, the landlord called back and said he had the house, and to bring a check by for first, last and a security deposit. It was the first check Lee had written in a very long time and it felt weird. It was a starter check, and that felt weird, like training wheels for an accountant. It also felt weird spending the money from the furnishings to his life with Beverly. There was satisfaction and sadness wrapped up in the pen stroke as he signed his name on the micro-printed signature line. He was taking proceeds from his stable life to stabilize his life. The need to process the reaction was fading, though, so he was pleased.

He wanted to call Abby the minute he signed the papers, but she was out in the field, convincing people that radio was the way to get the word out. Then he thought about calling Peter, but remembered that they were being mad at each other. He called Bear instead.

"Congratulations," Bear said. "Let me help you move in."

"Thanks, but I only have a box of CDs and some tools," Lee said with a laugh. "I don't need help with those. I'm going to go Saturday after work and clean, then carry my boxes from the car to the house. Nothing to it."

"Didn't the landlord clean the place before he put it up for rent?"

Lee was not sure even how to respond to that. Yes, he was sure they did, but only enough to get by. He needed to know it was clean.

"I have to do something," Bear said. "I'll bring some beer and help scrub. We'll make it a party."

"You don't have to do that," Lee said.

"Okay," Bear said. "What time do you want me there?"

Lee sighed, resigned, and told him he and Abby would be there around eight-thirty. Then he called Andrew to thank him for all he had done. He mentioned that Bear was coming by to help clean and Andrew thought that was a wonderful idea and that he'd bring the wife. Lee tried to object, but he had learned early on that Andrew overruled all objections.

On Friday, he called the gas and electric companies. The electricity was already on and just had to be switched to his name. The gas, which was how the house would be heated, wouldn't be turned on until Monday, because someone would have to come out to inspect it before they turned it on. They didn't want his new domicile exploding on his first night there. That would look really bad on their record. Every time Lee made or received a phone call, Twain pursed his lips. Lee had never thought Twain would have been a lip purser. Why was he being so un-Twain-like all of a sudden. He was usually so unfazed.

Saturday morning after brunch, Lee went shopping for basic furniture. Abby would have gone with him, but had to go to a live remote for one of her accounts, the House of Flapjacks™. They were giving away free short stacks of apple cinnamon flapjacks with every purchase of a fifteen dollar gift certificate. They had roving carolers and a guy dressed up as Santa who did a live interview every half hour to get the kiddies excited. Abby really hated having to go, because shopping for furniture with someone else's money seemed like a lot more fun. She was also afraid Lee was going to go to Ikea and get wrought iron, white pine and muslin. Lee told her she had no faith. Then he threw away the Ikea flyer he had found under his windshield the week before. He had enough time to get a couch, chair, coffee table and lamp before he had to get back for the dinner rush. Twain let him go early, which puzzled him.

"You have to move in," Twain said, then wiped what could have been a tear and could have been a stray fleck of butter from his cheek. Lee hoped it was butter, then just wished he hadn't seen it at all. Twain went in back and came out with the poached egg form thing and handed it to Lee.

"House warming," he said.

He was just getting used to Twain being fazed. Why was everyone being so nice to him all of a sudden?

Lee turned on the hot water in his new bathroom to fill the bucket. It spurted, sputtered, splatted then came out cold, orange and cloudy. The rest of the cleaning supplies were stacked in the living room next to the new furniture. He let the water run for a while, and went into the living room to start planning his cleaning strategy. Abby was standing there with a takeout box filled with a short stack of apple cinnamon flapjacks, looking at the living room furniture. It looked inexpensive, and very conservative, but at least it was solid, not "we include the tools". He hugged her, and they kissed, going right past the friendly into the something more. Then she disengaged and Lee tried to decide where they should start.

"First we have to explore," Abby said. "You have to know what you just got."

There was a door to the basement in the kitchen. In the basement was a work bench, but it would take some doing to make it usable. It was homemade, old, full of holes, lopsided, sloppily covered with faded green paint. There was a huge vice on the corner that had been, at sometime in the distant past, bright red. Now there were a few flakes of red peeking through the grime and oil on it. It smelled like an old vice. It was perfect. Lee really felt at home. There were cans of rusty nails and screws, bolts and nuts and washers and a coffee tin full of what looked like laundry soap. Abby pointed out the gas hookup for a dryer and the plumbing for a washer next to a basin sink. Next to that was a pile of old newspapers. Once he was settled, he thought with a smile, this was going to be where he would spend most of his time. On the way back up the stairs, Abby pointed out some deep scratches on the outside of the basement door. They had been painted over, but never filled. My first handyman project, he thought. The sense of normalcy was almost complete.

They went from room to room, then Abby said they should check out the garage.

"It's all snowy out there," Lee objected.

"Yeah, but it's warmer than inside."

The garage was simple. It had an aluminum pull door for the car and a wooden side door for the people. It was a simple wood frame building. Inside there were a few old boxes that Lee would have to go through at some time. There was also an old wooden Florida Grapefruit box. Lee went to look into it. It was almost filled with firewood.

"Fire!" he shouted, and after Abby calmed her heart, he had her load his arms with logs. He didn't even mind getting dirty and dusty because flames were in his immediate future.

Abby went down to the basement to get some of the newspaper. Lee carefully arranged the logs and paper in the fireplace, then they realized neither had a match. Not even an Ohio Blue Tip.

"Maybe Bear or Andrew will have one," Lee said.

There was a knock at the door. It was Andrew and his wife. They both stomped their feet and came in.

"My goodness, it's cold in here," Mrs. Divine said.

"No gas til Monday. I have wood, but I need a match for the fire. Either of you have one?"

They both shook their heads regretfully. There was another knock at the door. That must be Bear. It was Peter, who stood in the doorway carrying a potted plant.

"Happy house," he said when Lee opened the door.

Lee was very surprised to see him, and asked how he knew they'd be there.

"Bear told me. I was a little hurt that I heard it from him, then I realized I haven't given you much of a chance to tell me anything, lately."

There was that awkward moment when two male friends had to decide if a hug was appropriate. They both were relieved when Peter just handed Lee the plant.

"You really shouldn't have," Lee said, and he meant it. Peter was angry with him, probably had a right to be angry with him, and here he was being all nice and stuff. Lee was really embarrassed.

"I'm sorry I got mad," Peter said. "It shouldn't have been that important to me. It really was kind of a one night stand. Well, two."

"No, I'm sorry," sorry that he hadn't thought to apologize first. "I should have been more sensitive. You were upset."

They stood awkwardly for another moment.

"Jeez, it's cold in here," Peter said.

Lee explained about the gas and the wood and the match. Peter checked his pockets. There was another knock at the door. That had to be Bear. Did everyone in this town come on the little yellow bus, Lee wondered. Or is this a sixties sitcom where everyone just shows up at the same time because they only have a half hour to tell the story? It was someone standing behind a large armful of packages.

"Party favors," Bear's voice said from behind the packages, and Lee took some of the bundles from him. There was a twelve pack of beer, packs of paper plates, napkins, cups and plastic forks, two pre-cooked chickens (one lemon herb, one with paprika and sage), a package of rolls, a large plastic container of potato salad and another of macaroni and cheese. Lee was now really embarrassed. He hadn't even thought of feeding these people who had come to help him clean and move in to his new house. Bear apologized for being late, which embarrassed Lee even more.

"Jesus, it's cold in here," Bear said. "My nipples are perking."

They all explained about the gas and the wood and paper and no matches. He handed the remaining packages to Peter, reached into his pocket and produced a match book. It had "Jakarta, Indonesia Chamber of Commerce" printed on the cover.

They all stood around in awed appreciation as Lee started the fire. It took three matches to get the paper going which caused a little contrived suspense, but soon the wood was beginning to catch. It was old wood and very dry, so it blazed fairly quickly. Everyone started shedding outer garments. Abby's sweatshirt was orange. Peter looked at the fire, then at Lee.

"I hated that we weren't talking," he said.

"Yeah," Lee said. "Me, too. Oh. Speaking of that, I have a job interview on Tuesday."

"Great. Congratulations. Doing what?"

"Accounting."

"Where?" Peter asked, and his voice started to convey concern.

"There are only a couple of accounting firms in town. I sent my resume to both of them. One of them called me in."

Peter looked at him for a very long time. Something was wrong, and Lee couldn't figure out what it could possibly be.

"I hear you're giving up your career as a Thespian, Lee," Mrs. Divine said. (Wait, Lee's gay? Steve, here's a book. It's a small one. With training wheels.)

"What?" Peter said.

"I, um... " Lee said. "Yeah. I was going to tell you that, too. I'm not going to act any more."

"Why?"

Lee shrugged. Andrew started rummaging through the food. Mrs. Divine slapped his hand.

"Cleaning first, Thumbs. That's why we're here."

"Let's put on some tunes," Bear said.

Lee explained that he didn't yet have anything to play music on, and Peter looked like he was going to say something, but shook his head, picked up a rag, a canister of Ajax, a pair of bright yellow Playtex gloves and harrumphed into the bathroom. Mrs. Divine attacked the kitchen, Bear took a screwdriver out of his back pocket and checked all the door hinges.

"Did anyone bring a vacuum?" Abby asked.

Lee explained that he was planning on renting a carpet shampoo machine on Tuesday. Abby questioned the need for that, and Lee reiterated that he was going to rent a carpet shampoo machine on Tuesday. She went into the bedoom to dust. Andrew said that something about the house felt really familiar, then started supervising. Lee generally got in everyone's way.

As they cleaned, they joked and laughed. Except Peter, who just quietly scrubbed the bathroom. Abby broke out into song a few times, which embarrassed Lee, but delighted the rest. Except Peter, who just scrubbed the bathroom. Finally, Mrs. Divine announced that the kitchen was inhabitable, and started setting out the food Bear had brought on the coffee table. Everyone came into the living room, fixed themselves plates and happily ate with the hunger brought on by good, hard work. Except Peter, who kept scrubbing.

"Peter," Abby called down the hallway. "We're eating. You can stop now."

Peter came into the living room, took off the yellow gloves, prepared himself a very small plate of food, sat in the corner and moved his potato salad around on his plate like a small boy playing with his Tonka. (Hey, you can go blind doing that. Steve, have you finished your book? I'm having trouble getting the skin off.) After they ate, they all sat satiated like little Buddhas. Except Peter, who quietly played with his macaroni and cheese. Mrs. Divine announced they had to go, and she and Andrew hugged and kissed Lee goodbye. Then Bear said he should split, and he and Lee didn't hug and kiss goodbye. Peter sat in the corner, playing with his chicken.

"What?" Lee asked, when he could no longer ignore Peter.

Peter looked up at him.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asked.

Lee was completely unsure how to answer and said so.

"You're going back to accounting."

"Yeah," Lee said, incredulously. "It's what I do. It's what I am." Peter just looked at him, so he added, "I can only make a hundred bucks a week at Twain's. I can make eight point three times as much money and work in an office. That doesn't smell like grease."

"You make tips, too."

"Ten dollars a day. What the hell are you talking about?"

"You're supposed to love music, but you don't even have anything to play it on."

"I can't afford the stereo I want, and I don't want a chintzy one."

"Can't afford it? You just got a ton of money. I would have thought playing your music would have been your first expense."

Lee sputtered for a moment trying to sort out which one of the many responses to that was the most important.

"I'll determine my priorities, thank you," he said, acid beginning to boil away at the base of his throat.

"Yeah, like giving up acting. You did that really fast, Lee," Peter said, the words beginning to tumble out faster and faster now that he had started. "You were starting to break out of your shell. You were exploring and trying things. You were being reborn. You were going into a renaissance. I was proud to be part of it. You were reinventing yourself. Now you're recreating your old life right down to the desk with a green lampshade. I'll bet your couch is even facing the same direction it did in Chicago."

"No," Lee said, not noticing that his fingernails were cutting into the flesh of his palms. "In Chicago it faced south."

"That is south, Lee. This isn't Chicago. This isn't your old life. Abby isn't Beverly. Snap out of it."

Lee simply went to the front door and opened it. After a moment, Peter picked up his coat and left. Lee slammed the door, then stood looking at it. Abby put her hand on his shoulder. He jumped, then turned to her.

"You didn't have a lot to say," he said to her.

She shrugged and told him it wasn't her ball game, then asked if he had thought about bedding for the night. He hadn't. Actually, he had just assumed he would go back to Twain's, but there was a fire going and he didn't want to leave that, and he was tired, and angry and just wanted it all to be nice again. Abby said that she had brought sleeping bags, sheets, blankets and pillows. She went out to her car to get it all, then set up a bed with it by the fireplace. Watching her methodically arranging the bedding calmed Lee somewhat, and he asked her what she thought about what Peter had said.

"Do you want the truth or to feel good?"

"Can't I have both?"

"Not this time."

"Oh. Then make me feel good."

She kissed him on the cheek.

"You're staying, aren't you?" Lee asked. His voice sounded to him like a little boy's and he wished that the first time he had asked her that question he could at least have sounded like a college student.

Abby didn't say anything for a long time, then she just shook her head. Lee was surprised and hurt.

"Okay," Abby said, trying to figure it out as she talked. "Peter is scared for you. He loves you and sees you going backwards. I'm scared for me."

"Why?"

"You're still married."

"We're finalizing the divorce."

"You're on the rebound. I got attracted to the adventurer. It seemed thrilling. I like you. A lot. I like what you like, and I like how we are, but I can see what Peter means. You're getting off the path and back on the pavement. You still have feelings for Beverly. You have to put some distance between Chicago and River Bend before we can get any closer."

"It would be a lot easier to do that if we got closer."

"That's the wrong reason.

"I like you, too. A lot." Again, Lee could hear the little boy in his voice, pleading. He wanted to slap the little fucker.

"I can't afford to be intimate with you right now. I can't. You can't, either, Lee."

Lee turned away from her. He might as well sleep on a slimy green couch the rest of his life and get a pet fish. She turned him back and kissed him again, and that kiss was friendly and understanding. Lee's heart sank, and he wondered just how Peter felt when he saw Jim sitting there all clothed and everything. He put his force field up. The temperature in his body lowered and his heart rate dropped to one. He was used to this feeling. It felt normal.

"Thank you for dropping by, Abigail. I'll get the bedding cleaned and drop it by."

"Stop it, Lee. You don't wear that well," Abby said harshly. "You're more the kilt and bagpipes type."

"All right," Lee said with a weak smile. "I'm just tired. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

They hugged briefly, and she left. Lee stood shivering. It wasn't cold. The fire was still going, although not as strongly as it had been. It was almost just coals, but they gave off a nice even warmth. The shivering had something to do with the fact that everyone was mad at him, and he was fairly certain that he hadn't done anything wrong. What the hell was wrong with wanting a normal life? What was wrong with wanting a normal job? What was wrong with wanting a normal fucking relationship? Well, fuck them all, he thought, then turned off the lights, kicked off his shoes, dropped his trousers and climbed into the bed Abby had made for him.

He woke to a strange noise.

"Shut up, Excalibur," he said groggily, then remembered where he was. Oh, God, he thought. The neighbors have a dog.

Then he heard the noise again. It wasn't quite a dog. The air was cold and the fire was out, but it was still dark. He couldn't place the noise. When you are in a new place, it takes a while to get used to that place's noises; to the sound of the branch that might be rubbing against the awning. To the settling of the beams and walls. The way traffic movement might make its way into the air of the room. The sound of the axe murderer from Oregon who lived next door sharpening his axe. This might, after all, have been where Roger had lived. When he had lived. If he had lived. The noise happened again. It was like a whine, not a creak. Well, that left Roger out, he liked to creak and moan. Lee sat up and pushed the sheets aside, ready to investigate. Then he remembered that, in every meat-movie he had ever seen, the only people who had been viciously killed were the ones who went to investigate the sound, especially if they were in their underwear, so he threw a piece of wood on the embers and curled back up under the covers, hugged one of the pillows and tried to get back to sleep.

In the morning, with the light that glinted off the snow streaming into the room, any thought of axe murderers and bloody co-eds seemed a little foolish. He got up, decided to shower at Twain's because the water there would be hot, and left.

Twain's was a-sparkle in metal decorations. There was an aluminum tree next to the little platform draped with what looked like actual metal tinsel evenly spaced on all the branches, large colored tear-drop shaped bulbs with the pigment cracked and peeling, large round ornaments and popcorn balls wrapped in tinted cellophane that could have been made in any of the last five decades, and probably were. The tree was topped by a silver star with one yellow, tear-dropped light in its center, and the base was hidden by a large, white, felt-like blanket with little sparkly flecks in it. The room was bedecked by silver garlands, candy-canes and paper fold out angels, bells, snowflakes and Santas. It all made Lee's eyes hurt. He went to the tree, found the plug which was at the end of a cloth covered cord, was round and had only two identical prongs, and plugged it into the wall. There was a strange colored glow, and when he turned around he saw a slowly turning, four colored wheel with a flood light behind it, being turned by a grinding motor that had served for far too many Christmases. Lee turned around to make sure he wasn't at his grandparents' house wearing flannel pajamas with little bears on them and a trap at the back. Then he remembered he hadn't yet showered and was still wearing the same clothes from the day before.

Twain sat at his stool and Lee poured him his cup of coffee.

"Why didn't you wait for me to help you decorate?" Lee asked.

Twain looked at him like he might have to wipe butter from his face again.

"You weren't here."

No, Lee thought. I wasn't.

The waiting room to the accounting firm was simply furnished with two simple chairs, a table with Newsweek, Time Magazines and Wall Street Journals arranged in a perfect fan and a painting of a vase with flowers. The place was pristine, almost antiseptic. It felt familiar to Lee. As he sat in the chair waiting for the owner to come out, he felt odd. There was something unsettling about the place that he couldn't put his finger on. Perhaps it was because he hadn't interviewed for a job in a long time, except for a play or two, and they didn't pay. The owner wore a nice off the rack suit and a simple blue tie and a Supercuts do. He came out, shook Lee's hand and led him through a large central room where the associate accountants and the bookkeepers sat at desks with computer screens, adding machines and three ring binders, to his office. Everything was garishly lit with bright flourescent lights. Lee smelled graphite and heard the comforting sound of a hundred ten key keys working over time. The room had one pencil sharpener screwed to the wall. Shaped like a man bending over. Lee felt comfortable for the first time since he got to town, but feeling comfortable felt wrong, somehow. A voice shouted in his ear, "What are you doing?" He told the voice to shut up.

The interview was low-key, as if it were merely a formality. Lee had impressive credentials, he was told, and The Firm would be lucky to have him. An offer was made that was much less than Lee would have accepted in Chicago, but seemed fair for River Bend. The office door opened, and a young man with a silk tie, leather soled shoes and an entirely too self-satisfied look on his face came in. The owner introduced him to Lee as his son. (Lee's son? No, the owner's son. Why would he introduce Lee to his own son? He didn't, Steve he... you do that on purpose, don't you?) The interview ended with a handshake and a smile, but as Lee walked back out, he couldn't help feeling he didn't like the place. He really couldn't imagine why, it was perfect. The room was neat, organized, just the way he liked it. The owner seemed dedicated. Even the son fit. It would be a good place to work. So why didn't he like it? When he got into his car and looked out onto the snow piled in the gutter by the sidewalk, it hit him. It wasn't messy enough. He couldn't believe that thought was there, but it was. Solidly. The place smacked too much of Chicago and not enough of Twain's. He was going to have to kill Peter.

The morning of Christmas Eve, Lee came downstairs to find a thin, flat rectangular gift sitting on the counter, wrapped in dime-store wrapping and thin green ribbon with a small, simple, store bought tag that said, simply, "Lee." He kept looking over at it as he set up the kitchen and diner and brewed the coffee. He continued looking at it as he poured Twain's coffee. When he sat down with his own, Twain asked, a little peevishly, if he was going to open it.

"Did you get me this?" Lee asked. When Twain just looked at him, he added, "I didn't get you anything."

Twain shrugged. Lee lifted the gift. It was really heavy. He shook it.

"What are you doing?" Twain asked.

"I'm trying to guess what it is."

"Don't."

Lee carefully removed the ribbon, then, even more carefully, separated the tape from the paper, then carefully folded the paper back. It was a photo framed in nice wood. It was a photo of the Partridge Family. A signed photo of the Partridge Family. Signed by everyone but Danny Bonaduce.

"I thought you were mad at me," Lee said, hoping desperately that he wouldn't cry.

Twain shrugged, again.

"I turned down that other job."

"You can stay on here until you land on your feet."

"Thanks, that'll be nice."

Twain shook Lee's hand and wished him a Merry Christmas. Lee felt very odd about the whole month.

At one thirty-three, Officer Bacon came in with a bag. He pulled three small, oblong packages wrapped in aluminum foil covered with Saran Wrap from it, announced that they were homemade fruit cakes, gave one to Twain, one to Lee and left one to be given to Matt.

"I didn't get you anything," Lee said.

"Merry Christmas," Officer Bacon said, and gave Lee a bear hug, pinning his arms to his sides. Lee could feel the night stick pressing against his belt, and was grateful that the hug didn't last a millisecond longer than was acceptable for hugs from gregarious straight peace officers.

"Congratulations on your new home," he said to Lee. "No more couch."

As Officer Bacon left on his merry rounds, Lee wondered how he knew so much. Then he wondered how everyone in this town knew so much.

Matt came in at around three to start with the Christmas Eve rush, that, Lee was surprised to discover, was traditionally very busy. He came in to the kitchen where Lee was putting pots away, and handed Lee a small, very sloppily wrapped gift, and wished him a Merry Christmas. Lee took it with a combination of awe and embarrassment.

"I didn't get you anything," he said softly, and shook it.

"What are you doing?" Matt asked.

"Trying to guess what it is."

"It's a Walkman," Matt said, with a big, proud, toothy grin.

Lee was completely surprised. He carefully pealed the wrapping off the gift. It was a portable CD player.

"Sorry, I didn't get you any batteries."

Lee grabbed Matt and hugged him. Matt stood stiffly, his arms pinned to his sides, waiting for the hug to end, but very pleased that the gift was so appreciated.

"Do you really like it?" he asked, when the hug finally ended.

Lee assured him he really, really did. Matt bounced out of the kitchen to get to work. He would have floated, but happy straight men's feet had to touch the ground at least once every three yards.

At about five, during the peak of the dinner rush, Peter came in with a long, lopsided package. (Steve, we have to describe Twain's Christmas Eve Dinner Special. Okay, there was lots of good food. Good. What about dessert? With pudding. Thanks. No problem.) He asked Twain to get Lee from the back, and when Lee came out, he handed him the package. Lee was nonplused.

"I didn't get... "

"Just open it," Peter said.

Lee shook it, and Peter squinted, turned his head and told him that wasn't a good idea. Lee carefully removed the wrapping. It was a package of fireworks. (Wait, he's not you, Lee wouldn't want fireworks. Well, Peter's not you, he'd give fireworks. I'd give you fireworks. Why haven't you ever gotten me fireworks? Because you're you.)

"Shut up, guys," Peter said. "I got him fireworks."

"Yeah," Lee agreed. "Shut up."

Lee looked at Peter for a long time, then shook his head and told him he hadn't taken the job. Peter smiled a warm smile.

"I know. Officer Bacon told me. I'm glad."

"And Matt got me a CD player," Lee said, refusing to comment on the Officer Bacon thing.

Andrew came in a short time later and gave Lee a makeup kit. Lee, really embarrassed, told him he hadn't gotten him anything, then reminded him he'd quit acting. Andrew smiled, told him all sales were final, wished him a happy holiday and left, passing Abby, who had just come in carrying a beautifully wrapped package. This is getting entirely too ridiculous, Lee thought, sincerely hoping that you couldn't die of shame and embarrassment.

"I though you didn't want to see me," Lee said.

"I said I didn't want to stay over."

"I didn't get you anything," he said.

"You still have a day. Saks Fifth Avenue is open until nine."

"There's a Sachs in River Bend?"

"You have a car," she said with a smile.

Lee started carefully unwrapping the gift, and Abby grabbed it and tore the paper rudely.

"I hate when people do that!" she said. "My uncle Patrick always does that, and I can't stop him because he's my uncle."

"Thank you," Lee said. "It's perfect."

He started to move to hug her, but stopped. She moved to hug him, but stopped. They both moved to hug each other, but stopped.

"We're having dinner tomorrow at around two at my family's house. You're invited."

Lee hemmed, then he hawed, then he smiled and told her he'd be there. She waved quickly and left. A moment later, she ran in, hugged him really hard, but really quickly, then left again. Lee had to go in back with her gift in front of his left pants pocket.

Twain came in back and told Lee there was mail for him. It was a bulging nine-by-twelve inch manila envelope and it was from Beverly. I didn't get you anything, he thought as he shook it to try to figure out what it might be. It felt like a shirt. Or a book. Maybe Tajar Tales. Or maybe a well padded CD. He opened it, wondering if he could ever live down the year he didn't get anybody anything.

The envelope was filled with smaller, window envelopes. Just what he always wanted. From credit card companies. He opened one. It was ninety days past due.

"Beverly!" he shouted.