Lee wondered why whoever decided those things decided that the year in western culture should start in the middle of the coldest time of the year. He picked up the top firework in the pile and squinted, trying to read the label. Spring would make so much more sense. The new year didn't even start on a season change like an equinox or solstice, for goodness sake. It started in the middle of nothing. Cold nothing. He held the rocket up to the light that seeped into his back yard from the house and tried to stop breathing so the steam didn't obscure the name. Ah. Weeping Willow.

"What a stupid name for a firework," he said.

He walked out across the crunchy snow and inserted the stick at the end of the rocket into the empty, quart New Coke™ bottle that was anchored firmly in the snow in the exact center of his back yard, tilted slightly so that the rockets wouldn't hit the northern ash tree at the back border of the yard. He knew it was in the exact center because he measured it. Things like that are important.

He removed his right glove and took an Ohio Blue Tip from his right coat pocket. He glanced at his watch before striking the match. Eight fifty-nine. Beverly was probably sliding a pair of dark stockings up her adulterous calves in preparation for an evening of Champagne and sex with the Jerk. He struck the match on his jacket zipper and watched it flare and calm. Good old Ohio Blue Tips. Light on anything. Says so on the carton. Except Beef Wellington. And New Coke™. And water. And snow. Okay, so they didn't light on very much at all, but they did light on zippers. If the zipper didn't pull all the burny stuff off the wood of the match. He touched the now calm flame against the fuse of the Weeping Willow, and when it started to sputter and sizzle with the unmistakable sound of a lighted fuse and smell of wonderful sulphur, he ran like a little girl back to his small porch while putting his right glove back on.

He picked up the Flintstones glass of brandy from the step and took a sip from it as he turned to watch the Weeping Willow take off with a fwoosh. It spiraled a little on its path and knocked several small branches from the northern ash. It exploded in a cascade of golden orange sparks that made the ash look like a Christmas tree. Of course, he thought, the year has to start in January. It's the first month of the year.

He had spent Christmas evening with Abby and her clan, which seemed to have grown since Thanksgiving, although he hadn't noticed any new faces. The dinner had been loud and delicious and raucous and confusing and she had a wonderful family who seemed to like him and he liked them even if they were all a little loud and raucous and he had spent the final twenty minutes of it standing in front of their house shivering and watching the steam from his mouth intermingle with the steam from Abby's as they talked and he tried to decide just how much permission he had to lean over and kiss the life out of her. The whole evening had been confusing like that. He wanted to kiss her, but didn't want to cross the line and look like a jerk. But if she wanted him to kiss her he would look like a jerk.

She had tried to explain to him that he needed time because he still wasn't over Beverly.

"I'm over Beverly. Look what she did with my credit. I spent my whole life building perfect credit and in one day she ruined it."

"It took her almost three months," Abby said with that smile that made Lee want to wipe her face with his mouth. "Look, you left a message for Andrew. He'll take care of it."

"Abby," he said, not letting it go, "It takes a hundred years to grow a tree and ten minutes to chop it down."

"It takes longer than that if it's a good-sized tree," Abby said, and Lee gave her a "shut up, you know what I mean" look. "And anyway," she added, "perfect credit doesn't mean much."

"Who are you?"

Abby laughed. "You know, we missed The Wiz. Last night was the last night."

He wanted to hug her or leave. He wanted to know what she wanted him to do. He wanted her to pull some mistletoe out of her pocket and hold it over her head. Instead, she put her hands in her pocket and left them there. He wanted her to make the first move.

"Thank you for the charm bracelet," she said instead, lifting her arm up and shaking it with a pleasant tinkle that landed gently on his ear. "Now do I have to get myself some charm?"

"You're welcome," Lee answered. "How could I not after you got me that huge thing."

"I know you needed one."

Finally she had leaned in and gently kissed him on the cheek. Her perfume was intoxicating in a way that Stella's had never been and Veronica's couldn't be. It was simple, more peppery than sweet, perhaps even a little dark.

"Nice perfume," he said.

"It's 'I Know You Want Me Bad' by Roseanne."

He took his right glove off and removed a snake pellet from the little red box with yellow writing and set it on the step. He lit another Ohio Blue Tip and was about to ignite the pellet, but realized that it would leave a mark. A dirty mess. He moved the pellet to a rock by the porch and lit it. The black ash snaked out from the glowing orange ring on the top of the pellet, looking like poop coming out of a (Steve!)

They hadn't kissed and the following week had passed as if he had skipped over it. As if he hadn't even touched ground. A gay man's leap, not a straight man's leap. He decided that he needed to have New Year's Eve by himself because he hadn't really spent any quality time alone in his new place and he did need to sort things out and had informed both Abby, Peter and Andrew and Bear and Matt and Twain of that and was happy with the decision until about three-thirty that afternoon when he'd picked up his phone to call Abby or Peter. Or Andrew or Bear or Matt. But he realized that would seem just too sad and desperate, so he pulled Peter's gift out and set up in anticipation of a fiery celebration of his own. And anyway, they were all probably at the same party drinking Champagne with Jim, who was almost as much of a jerk as the Jerk.

The next firework in the pile was a Piccolo Pete. He set that down because it would be too loud, then remembered it was New Year's Eve for God's sake, and for God's sake, if you couldn't make a little noise by yourself in your own back yard on New Year's Eve, When Could You? He picked it back up and stuck the stick in the spout of the charred New Coke bottle. Stupid soft drink. Stupid gay man. (Hey, where'd that come from? It's New Year's. Oh. Wait. Quiet, he's about to light more fire.) He had spent many wonderful New Year's Eves with Beverly. Well, five. They had gone to parties and danced. Well, she had danced. He stood so she wouldn't have to dance alone. Or with someone. He lit the fuse and trotted back for another sip of brandy. He was about to sip and it went off. It was louder than he thought.

"Oh, fuck," he said and tried to cover his ears to keep the shrill knife of sound from piercing through his ear drums all the way to his medulla oblongata, then added, "fuck, it's New Year's Eve," and toasted the air.

He was about to sip but felt something watching him. Maybe it was Roger. Or cops. Or the two neighbor kids who, when he turned his head he noticed, now, had their faces pressed against the glass of their dining room window. He could just see the back of their house in the space between the back of his and his garage. He raised the glass to them, then drained the brandy. He went back inside for the bottle, and when he came back out, there was a third nose pressed against the glass. Their father, he assumed by the height of it. Fuck, he thought. He's going to call the cops. Or Roger. Fuck it, it's New Year's Eve. He defiantly picked up the next firework and didn't even look to see what it was called. It was big and that's all that mattered. He strutted like a bull elk out to the Coke bottle. Fuck him. Fuck Beverly. Fuck the Jerk. Fuck Jim. Fuck Abby for thinking I still want to fuck Beverly. Fuck 'em all. He took a slug from the brandy bottle. Fireworks and liquor. Great combination. And snow. Life is good. Life is beautiful. Il Postino.

"Here's to me," he said boldly, defiantly, and took another drink, then went to take his right glove off but it was missing, so he just lit a match and touched it to the fuse.

He turned to get back to the stoop and his left foot hit a smooth patch in the snow and his left knee dropped into the crunchy snow and stuck.

"Oh, shit," he said and turned his head just as the thing went off only a few feet from his face with a sound like a bull elk farting. The fire from the rocket reflected in the frozen snow around his knees, making it look like he was kneeling in a carnival on the Riviera, then faded as it soared.

He watched it ascend, then explode in a shower of bright colors that reflected in the frost in the trees, the snow on the roofs, the glass of the windows and the brandy bottle. That reminded him of brandy and he took another sip and struggled up. There was a sound of awe from the next yard, and when he got back to the porch he could see two young kids, a boy and a girl, all bundled up, standing on their back porch, smiling in appreciation. They must have been the first two noses. The father, still pressed against the dining room window, nodded, then leaned back long enough to take a sip from his beer, then waited patiently for the next assault. Lee remembered his own father, who, when Lee had wanted to set off Roman Candles in their back yard, would give him the obligatory speech about the cops but wouldn't tell him not to. He would then stand at the back window watching with the fire-lust that Lee had inherited bright on his face.

Now he had an audience. Now he had to perform. Stupid town. Of course, he didn't have to audition for this part. If he had, Jim would be setting off his stupid fireworks. Stupid town. Stupid neighbors. Nice kids, though. They liked fireworks. Of course, so did the dad. Nice dad. Wonder where the mom is. Probably sleeping with the Jerk. Stupid mom. Sorry kids. Sorry dad. Sorry mom. He looked at his bounty and tried to estimate how long it would take. He looked at his watch. Nine thirty-six. Did he have enough stamina to last till midnight? No. He had about a half-hour left. Of both fireworks and stamina. He set aside a few of the bigger ones for the grand finale, took a swig of brandy, and chose the next victim.

Before he had left the Holiday's house on Christmas, he and Abby had made a date to see Of Mice and Men when it opened. He really didn't want to because Jim Ackerman would be in it. And he wouldn't. The only reason he had agreed was that Abby had asked, "But what if he's really bad?" and he didn't want to miss that. He still had a couple of weeks to back out. But maybe Abby would let him kiss her goodnight after a play.

Several crisp pops in the cold air later, Lee noticed another small nose pressed against a window of the house on the other side of his yard. It was an albino dwarf. (No, it wasn't, Steve, it was a small child. Same thing. You are a fool. Happy New Year.) He raised the brandy bottle to the new nose, then put another rocket stick in the pop bottle, which was now quite discolored and stinky. The still air in his back yard was a thick cloud of pale gray smoke that smelled of gunpowder and burned hair. He breathed in deeply, then smiled and lit the fuse.

He found himself standing on his back porch holding a half-eaten stick of beef jerky. He remembered the tub of it he'd bought and went back inside for more, then came out to ignite the finale. It took ten minutes to arrange the rockets, twist the fuses together, gauge the angle, stand in a sprinter's stance and strike a match. He lit and ran. When he got back to the porch he had just enough time to notice that the father was now also outside with his arms around his children, looking up at the sky. Lee also looked up just in time to see the multiple explosion. The golden and crimson tinted gray shadows from the trees and garage quickly changed directions, shape, focus and intensity in a macabre, schizophrenic dance on the snowy yard as the multiple war head ignited. The sky was afraid and hid behind the moon. Everything stood still as the last of the flakes of ash gently descended and the luminescent smoke slowly dissipated. He looked at his watch. Ten oh-three. Now he had an hour and fifty-seven minutes before he could turn in. He looked over at the father and kids just as they turned to go inside. The nose at the window on the other side was also gone. The sky breathed a sigh of relief. Lee noticed one box of snake pellets that had fallen to the side of the stairs. He emptied the whole thing on the step, crushed them all up, formed a neat little pile of snake pellet dust and set a match to it. He knew he'd hate himself in the morning.

Lee fell asleep on the couch and missed midnight altogether.

Besides Lee, there were six guys helping Bear load the set for Of Mice and Men into the theatre. Lee was once again amazed at how many people they could get to work so hard for free. No one made any money at a community theatre, it seemed, except the Artistic Director and the people in the front office. That meant Bear, Peter and Stella. And they didn't make much. Except Stella, who kept the books. And she said she didn't make much just to sound like one of the guys. The shed smelled of burned coffee, stale cigarette smoke, old sawdust and that horrible mucilage stuff that held the paint together. It had begun to be a familiar odor to Lee, and today it was intensified by the odor of eight men who ate too much cabbage. He was surprised to realize he would miss it.

"You missed a hell of a party," Bear said as he and Lee stopped for a sip of old coffee. "Kim Anderson danced naked."

"Really?"

"No."

Lee shook his head and tried not to smile. He would miss working here.

"I set off fireworks."

"Cool," Bear said as they set their mugs down. He watched to make sure the guys that were carrying the back wall of the bunk house didn't torque it too much as they maneuvered it out of the shed. "Agnes danced naked?"

They both laughed, then shuddered, then started loud power tools to scramble the image out of their heads. And they turned away from each other in case their pants tented.

"What were we talking about?" Lee asked when he turned his power tool off.

"Coffee."

"Oh. No," Lee said. "Agnes."

They turned on their power tools again.

Lee and Bear picked up the stage right wall of the bunk house and expertly maneuvered it out of the shed, through the open back wall of the women's dressing room and out onto the stage. Bear liked working with Lee because he knew he didn't need to supervise him. The moment they set the wall down and put the pin through the brace into the stage floor, Lee turned and tripped over the pin.

"Fuck," he said quietly, then he and Bear returned to the shed.

"You like this, don't you?" Bear asked as they stacked the bunk pieces. Lee asked what he meant and he said, "This. Building sets. Theatre. This. You like this."

Lee had to agree and Bear gently reminded him that they were having auditions the next week for The Odd Couple . Lee assured Bear that he was through with all that, all the while not sure at all himself.

"Agnes is directing it."

Lee turned on a power tool.

They brought the bunk pieces to the stage and Bear showed a couple of the guys how to put them together, then they went back to the shed. Bear did a little dance and Lee asked if he was hung over. He laughed and assured him he wasn't, and Lee asked if he had gotten laid. He laughed even louder and nodded.

"By Agnes?"

Bear turned on his tool. One of the volunteers brought an old coffee can with the words "Leaveth Cussing to the Groundlings" neatly painted on the side in a fancy Algerian-style font and handed it to Lee.

"What's that for?" Lee asked.

"You said the 'f' word," the guy said. "Before. Really quietly, but I heard you. Right after you tripped."

Lee gladly dropped a quarter into the can. Just then, Jim came into the shed and asked if he could do anything. Lee quietly seethed. He put five more quarters into the can.

"What are you doing?" the guy asked.

"This is me seething," Lee said, and seethed again.

Jim arrived at the theatre for his volunteer stint and the first thing he saw was a bunch of guys on the stage putting bunk pieces together for his play. Maybe today he'd forgo scrubbing the bathrooms this once and help move set stuff out to the stage. He made his way back to the shed and asked if they needed any help, then saw Mr. Harris out of the corner of his eye dropping quarters into a bucket. Even the simple act of dropping coins seemed somehow sinister and a thrill ran up Jim's spine and exploded at the base of his skull. Right at the medulla oblongata. If he were given to analyzing his reactions to things he would probably have realized that he actually enjoyed being frightened by this strange man. As he wasn't given to analyzing things, he simply observed what Lee was wearing and catalogued it away for his own future clothing purchases, then turned to get his gear to scrub the rest rooms in the theatre.

He was holding a bucket of hot, soapy water for the men's room floor, and just as he opened the door, an oddly alluring voice called out, "Young man." He turned and saw an older woman coming out of the office with some scripts in her hand, looking at him. "You're new," she said. "We haven't been introduced. I'm Agnes Livingstone."

"Jim," Jim responded as she sashayed toward him. He had never seen an older woman sashay. Actually, he'd never seen any woman sashay. Except Rip Taylor. He wasn't sure if he liked it or not. "Jim Ackerman. Yeah, my father liked..."

"How nice to meet you," she said and put out her hand. He shook it. It was soft. "You seem like a strong young man," she said and gently touched his bicep. "I have a rather inconveniently bulky couch that I would like on the other side of my living room. No, that would be asking too much."

"No," Jim said reflexively, "I'd be glad to."

"You'd help an old lady?"

"Oh," Jim said. Reflexively. "You're not old."

She brushed his cheek with her the back of her hand and told him he was sweet, then told him he would, of course, be compensated. He told her that wouldn't be necessary, that he'd be glad to help. She insisted on compensation and gave him her card. They agreed he'd be there at eight, and she walked away. Jim was leaning against the open door of the men's room, still holding the bucket, staring at her as she sashayed away. Her dress clung to her back and draped nicely off her hips. A man who had tried being gay noticed these things. He turned back to the men's room and sloshed hot, soapy water on the floor when the door closed behind him. He stared at it for a moment, frothing there on the tiles, before he remembered why he was here. If he were given to analyzing his reactions to things, he would still be confused.

Agnes walked out of the theatre with the scripts for The Odd Couple, thinking that had been just too easy.

Lee called Peter with his new phone and told him he had to come visit after work. When Peter knocked on the door, the first thing he heard was footsteps. The next thing he heard was the Blue Note Sessions blasting through the closed door. Blasting loudly. Rattling the windows and front stoop. The door opened and Lee stood there with a big grin.

"You bought a stereo."

"A sound system," Lee corrected him loudly, and led him in.

"Good," Peter said over the sound. "I'm impressed. It sounds good. Can you turn it down, now?"

Lee smiled and obliged. Then he turned it back up again just to show that he could.

"You're a very strange man," Peter said when he turned it back down with a smile.

They looked at each other for a moment, then Lee asked Peter how he was doing.

"Fine," he said. "I sat in on a rehearsal."

"For what?" Lee asked, then he remembered who Peter would be sitting in on a rehearsal to watch. "You're just a little bit of a masochist."

"Yeah," Peter said.

"Um," Lee said. "Is he any... Um. How did... Did he remember his lines?"

"You, too?"

"Me too what?"

"Yes, he's actually doing an okay job," Peter said, diplomatically not pointing out the obvious fact that Lee was also being a little bit of a masochist. (You mean like we're doing, Geoff? Exactly. I mean pointing out the obvious? Precisely. Think anyone will get this? No.)

Lee nodded thoughtfully, then told Peter he needed to show him something and led him through the kitchen to the basement. As he opened the basement door, he pointed at the freshly dried wood putty in the scratches on the door.

"My first project," he gleamed.

"You need to sand it," Peter said.

"Thanks. Should I paint it, too, Mr. Vila?"

"Okay, so I'm talking to Power Tool Man, here."

When they got to the bottom of the steps, Lee stopped and waited for Peter to notice. Peter looked at the work bench.

"Oh, you got your tools out," Peter said, then noticed that, next to the router and the variable speed drill was a propane torch and a tube of welding rods.

"You already bought a torch?"

"No, I brought it with me."

Then Peter noticed the axe. It was huge.

"And you brought that, too?" Peter asked. It had tar on the blade and sweaty dirt from Lee's hands and he wondered how it could get so much use in Chicago. Maybe he inherited it. I hope.

"Yeah..." Lee said, still waiting for Peter to notice.

Okay, so it wasn't tools. He looked around and noticed the dart board on the wall and pointed at that.

Lee shook his head. He was still waiting. He must have brought that with him, also. Okay. On the shelf under the work bench was a small can of putty, a number ten can of nails and...

"A gas mask?"

Lee nodded in way that let Peter know he hadn't yet noticed.

"You brought a gas mask with you?"

Lee nodded again, still waiting, but not nearly as patiently.

"From Chicago?" Peter asked, and Lee just stared. "Why did you bring a gas mask?"

Lee sighed exasperatedly and pointedly pointed at the small, heavy-duty speakers that were hanging on brackets in the corner of the wall and ceiling above the workbench.

"Cool," Peter said. "Speakers. In the basement."

Lee, even more exasperatedly, leaned over to the little knob on the wall above the bench and turned it. To eleven. The Blue Note Sessions blasted again. It hurt Peter's teeth.

"Wow," Peter yelled. "How can so much noise come out of such small speakers?"

Lee gave Peter a look and turned it back down.

"I mean music. How can so much music come out of such small speakers? Such beautiful music. Such interesting, unusual, beautiful music. Such..."

Lee gave him an "I get it, asshole" look and Peter smiled. They looked at each other again, and, before the look could pass beyond the appropriate number of seconds for straight comfort, Lee asked Peter if he was still mad at him. Peter shook his head.

"I'm sorry," Peter said, and Lee cocked his head like the little dog on the old record player ads. "About yelling at you. You just scared me. I thought we were losing you to Chicago. I didn't mean you shouldn't take that job. I mean, I probably did mean it, but I shouldn't have. I mean, I'm sorry I told you not to take..."

"I didn't not take that job because of you," Lee said. "Stupid gay man."

All the creatures on the earth stopped. Big and small. Like Burgess Meredith in The Twilight Zone. No, more like a Morgan Stanley Dean Witter commercial. (Wasn't that Merrill Lynch, Pierce, Fenner and Smith, Incorporated? Um. Sure.) Lee wondered if he had gone too far too soon. Stupid gay man. So sensitive. Then Peter laughed the really loud, rumbling, full, robust laugh he hadn't laughed since installment six, and Lee happily joined him. With a laugh that had a little more Chicago-accountant-like reserve. Well, with a chuckle. Well, a broad smile. They were friends again, past all that deep stuff that so puzzled and annoyed Lee.

"Hey," Peter said, looking around the room again, his eyes getting wide. "Party."

"Party?"

"You have to throw a house warming party."

Lee had a definite "I don't throw parties" look, but Peter was already seeing it. He said it would officially make it Lee's place. People. Food. A couple of spilled drinks. When Lee's face went all pale at that thought, Peter laughed and said that he, of course, meant down here in the basement. On the cement floor. And anyway, he could wet vac it after. The thought of having a reason to buy a wet vac made the color return to Lee's cheeks and forehead.

"Will people break things?" he said like an excited child.

Peter was about to insist that no one would, but noticed the work bench and the small dilation of Lee's pupils and nodded enthusiastically.

"Probably," he said.

"When Beverly threw parties, I was just in charge of liquor and music."

"That's fine. Okay. Cool. Let me think. I'll call Abby. I'm sure she'll be glad to help. Oh. Are you still seeing Abby?"

"Um," Lee said. "Yeah. I think so. Sort of. Yeah. I hope. Maybe."

"Good. I'll call her. It'll be a good chance to get to know her. And we can talk about you behind your back."

He looked at the gas mask again. Then at the axe.

"You're a very strange man. Are you sure you're an accountant?"

Lee smiled. Peter shook his head.

"Okay," he said. "This weekend is tech for Mice and Men, next week is hell week. Opening is next weekend. We'll have it the Saturday after that. In three weeks. It's settled."

He rubbed his hands in wonderful anticipation, and Lee had the strange feeling he had just been sold a Brooklyn Bridge or two, spanning some ocean-front property in Nebraska with proof of huge oil reserves under it. He leaned over and turned the knob on the wall and the music swelled, indicating the end of the scene. (On-line satirical serial film school, Steve? Hey, Lee did it, not me. Um. Sure.)

On Thursday, Lee couldn't stand it anymore and drove over to Andrew's house.

"What's going on with my credit?" he asked the moment Andrew opened the door.

"Hi. Come on in. We don't talk law in the front room."

Andrew led Lee to his office. Lee waited for Andrew to sit before repeating his question. Andrew offered him a cigar. Lee asked if he was playing with him, and Andrew smiled.

"I can probably get them to pay the bills. It won't be hard to prove they were her charges."

"What about my credit?"

"You don't especially need good credit right now. Don't' get your panties in a bunch."

"My panties aren't in a bunch. My panties never bunch. I don't wear panties."

"What color are they?"

"Plaid," Lee said. "I've had perfect credit my whole life. My student loan was paid off before there was any interest due. I've never had a late payment. On anything. Ever. The only reason I even know what a late payment is is because of my clients. I usually pay the full amount each month so there are no charges at all. I always pay more than the minimum. I even paid my Columbia House Record Club bills as soon as the records got there. Every time. What the fuck do you mean I don't need good credit?"

"You are not your credit, Lee."

"I what?"

Andrew smiled and leaned back in his chair. He put on his best "I understand your neurosis" look and assured Lee that he was working on it, that he was on top of it, that he had a trick or two up his sleeve, that his butt looked big in those pants, that worrying wouldn't make any difference.

"I'm good, remember? You said so yourself."

Lee stopped hyperventilating long enough to concede that Andrew was, indeed, good. Then Andrew said he'd need a little retainer up front, seeing as how bad his credit was. Lee got the point and took one of the cigars.

"Well, I might as well get something for my money," he said, and Andrew lit it.

"Are you smoking again, Thumbs?" Mrs. Divine shouted from the kitchen.

"She could be in Gary, Indiana and know. She has the nose of a vintner."

"Why Gary?'

"If you can smell anything in Gary, Indiana besides Gary, Indiana, you have a great nose."

"No, I mean why would she be in Gary?"

Mrs. Divine showed up in the doorway to the den. Andrew handed her the cigars and she took one, cut the end, lit it and went back to her household tasks.

Twain, as always, went to the opening night and gave Lee Saturday night off to see the play. Abby met Lee at his place because he now had a place for her to meet him at. When he opened the door, she gave him a kiss on the cheek and said they should hurry. As he got his coat, he talked to her in his mind, telling her that, if she had agreed to meet him at his house a little earlier, they would have had time to smooch on couch before going. He had that conversation right up until he got back into the front room and led her out to his car.

Their theatre seats were much better than he was used to. As he chatted with Abby amiably, waiting for the play to start, he wondered if all they were ever going to have were unofficial dates. Or was this an official one? He wasn't sure. They had set a time, day and place which is another way of saying "date" so it was a date in the "let's set a time, day and place" sense, but did that make it a date in the "are we on a date" sense? Officially? He wanted to skip the play and just go back and smooch on the couch. He wanted to skip the play in any case.

There was a curtain draped in front of the stage this time. It was gold and sparkling and had two spot lights pointing at it at oblique angles. Lee liked seeing the set right away better, it gave him more of a sense of what was to come. Now that he was a veteran theatre patron of more than one play, he could decide what he liked. The house lights went down, then the two curtain spots dimmed and went out. It wasn't nearly as thrilling as the opening moment of The Effect of Gamma Rays on Man-in-the-Moon-Marigolds. He was all set to hate this play. The lights came back up almost immediately, but they were odd. They only lit the edge of the stage, in front of the curtain and a little off to one side, but the curtain was now just a black nothing. The lights suggested the sandy edge of a river surrounded by trees at sunset. There were no set pieces, just lights, but he could swear he saw the water and the trees. Willows. The familiar thrill ran up his spine. How the hell do they do that, Lee thought, and lost himself to the play. There was a call of a sparrow, and the sound of distant ranch dogs barking. A quail call turned into a warning, then a flock taking wing, and two men entered carrying bed rolls.

As the two men, Lennie and George, finished their scene in the almost complete darkness of night, the curtain slowly opened to the bunk house at morning. Another thrill went up Lee's spine and down his arms. He was really beginning to love this theatre thing. The bunkhouse was empty until George and Lennie were led in by an old man. Lee completely forgot that he wanted to hate the play for the next thirteen minutes, until Carlson came in. Carlson, played by Jim. Jim Ackerman. Whose father liked the Rockford Files. A different kind of something went up Lee's spine and he squirmed in his seat. Abby put her hand on his arm. Lee had trouble losing himself, now. He watched every single movement that every single muscle on Jim's body made. He had watched women that closely before, but it hadn't felt the same. Carlson was supposed to be big. Strong. A ranch hand. It looked like they had one of the Beach Boys playing him, for God's sake. Jim couldn't be a big, strong, ranch hand if he tried. It never occurred to Lee to think that he wasn't any bigger or stronger or more like a ranch hand than Jim or a Beach Boy. Except the dead one, of course. Lee didn't watch Jim's muscles for long, though, because a minute later the act ended.

Shortly after Act II started, Carlson convinced Candy to let him take the old dog out and kill him. The whole scene was so wrenching that Lee was again lost in the play and Jim was already off stage with the dog by the time Lee remembered to hate him. By the time Carlson came back in and started cleaning his gun, Lee had given up hating him in favor of just watching the damn play, fully intending to lambast Jim's performance to anyone and everyone who would listen for the rest of his life.

After it was all over, Lee was sullen as he and Abby walked back to the car.

"Actually," Abby said when they were settled in, but before Lee had started it, "he was kind of good."

"I thought you were my friend."

"He was, you know."

"Of course he was," Lee said miserably, trying to find a way to get to all the lambasting he had planned. "He played the guy who killed the dog!"

Abby laughed understandingly, then crossed her arms.

"Some dawgs need killin'," she said, and Lee laughed in spite of himself and started the car.

When they got to his house, Abby kissed him lightly on the lips then went to her car and drove off. Lee went into the house thinking that at least it was progress. Not much progress, but progress.

Peter and Abby had agreed to get to Lee's house by eleven to set up for the party. Abby got to the house about thirteen minutes before Peter did. Lee was sitting on his couch in a pair of Dockers and a crisp white tee shirt, listening to ABBA. When Abby came in, he hurried over to change it.

"No," Abby said as she set the two big bags she was carrying down. "I like ABBA."

"I was just listening to it because I could," Lee said. "Wait, you like ABBA?"

"When I was a little girl, I thought they were named after me and just couldn't spell very well," she said, and handed Lee a receipt. "There's another bag in the car. Oh, and a box. Cool stereo."

Abby took off her coat and rolled up the sleeves of her rust colored sweat shirt. On the front was a picture of a star field and on the back it said "Shatner and Nemoy - 1971 World Tour".

"Sound system," Lee said as he put on a coat and pair of boots. "After Christmas sale."

Abby started taking party favors out of the bags and stacking them on all available surfaces. Lee came in with the box and set it down. Abby reached in, pulled out the receipt and handed it to him before he went back out for the bag. He set the bag down and started to take off his coat when Abby remembered the folding chairs in the trunk. When he opened the door, Peter was there, trying to get a hand free to knock. Lee took one of the bags from his arms and they set them in the kitchen.

Lee went out for the chairs and Peter followed him for the rest of his bags.

"Sorry I'm late," Peter said as he took off his coat. "I was watching Sesame Street."

"Elmo," Abby said. "Love him."

Peter went into the bedroom to put the coat on the bed.

"Who's Elmo?" Lee asked.

Peter came back into the kitchen to start taking foodstuffs out of the bags. Abby was putting streamer rolls in strategic places around the living room and kitchen.

"Bert and Ernie's love child," she said.

"Did those guys live together?" Lee said, and started to help Peter take things out of the bags.

"Yeah, they were roommates," Peter said, and put three of the things Lee had just taken out back into the bag. "They go in the fridge for later."

"Oh," Lee said, picked up a streamer roll, a blue one, and undid the little piece of tape that held it together. "I thought they lived in a garbage can."

"No, that was Oscar," Peter said as he folded the bag he had just emptied. "The Grouch®."

Abby gathered up the streamer that Lee had let fall all over the floor and took the end that he still had in his hand gently from him, as a mother would take her grandparents fine china from a poorly trained orangutan. Lee went back into the kitchen to help Peter again.

"I only watched Sesame Street enough to know one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight - niiiine, ten©," Lee said and started taking more stuff from bags.

"I watched it from the very beginning," Peter said. "I love it. You know the actor who played the shop owner died and they actually dealt with death on the show instead of just having a different actor do it."

Peter took the loaf of bread out of Lee's hand and set it back down on the counter.

"Was it funny?" Lee said as he opened the refrigerator door and started putting things he thought should go in there in there.

Abby came back into the kitchen with one of her bags and started taking out paper plates, napkins, plastic spoons, forks and cabbage. "No, it was for children," she said. "They don't start making death funny until it's for teenagers."

Peter took the packet of cheese from Lee's hand, closed the refrigerator door and handed Lee a receipt.

"I wonder if this is tax deductible," Lee said, wistfully. "Let me get my checkbook."

"Don't take anything but cash, Peter," Abby said. "We know about his credit rating."

"Damn Beverly!" Lee shouted.

"Hey, calm down," Abby said, and stroked his hair. "I didn't mean to upset you. I wouldn't want you to go to the hospital on a slab on the day of your housewarming. How would that look?"

"Thanks," Lee said, and glanced out the window. "Why are they towing your car?"

"Ono!" Abby shouted and started running for the door, then saw Lee's smile. "Cute."

"I'm going to make dip," Peter said. "Please take your little game into the other room."

"No, don't make him come help me," Abby said as she went into the living room, hoping Lee wouldn't follow. "Isn't there someplace you need to be?"

"Yeah," Peter said. "Aren't you going to the auditions for Odd Couple? It starts in an hour."

Lee let them know in very specific terms that he was done with all that. Abby said he should just go watch the auditions, then. Or go to work. Or go watch Twain work. Or go to the park and watch for snow. Peter came into the living room and looked around.

"You moved the lamp," he said. "You didn't move the couch, but you moved the lamp."

"I like the couch there," Lee said. "I tried it several places, and I like it there best. It's not because that's where it was in Chicago. It's my place. Leave me alone."

"I didn't say anything. It's none of my business."

"Don't you have dip to make?"

"Yes," Peter said. "I do. But my point is that you can't fool me about being done with all that."

"I can't audition. I haven't read the play, yet."

Who do you think you're fooling, straight man, Peter thought. He would have said it out loud if Abby wasn't there. "I saw it on your bed stand," he said instead.

"What the hell were you doing in my bedroom?" Lee said. He would have added Gay Man, but Peter was there.

"He was putting his coat on the bed, Lee," Abby said. "And you'd make a wonderful Pigeon Sister."

"It's a comedy about divorce."

"Then," Abby said, while putting her arm around his shoulder and breathing lightly on his cheek, "you should be perfect."

"Fine. Okay. I'll go audition. I hope you're happy. I'll be Felix just to spite you both. And I'll be good. Then you'll be sorry you were so mean to me."

He went into the bedroom to get a shirt and put on socks and plaid panties, donned his coat and boots and shuffled to the door.

"Um," he said, and turned back to them with that look of a puppy dog on his face that they both so loved and were so annoyed by. "When can I come back home?"

"Three," Peter said.

"Four," Abby corrected.

"Thirty," Peter agreed.

When Lee finally left, Abby turned to Peter.

"We're good," she said.

Peter agreed.

Agnes ran her auditions much differently from the guy who directed Of Mice and Men. Lee walked in thinking he knew what to expect and was greeted by an assistant sitting at a long table in front of the closed door to the theatre instead. The assistant handed him the sign-in sheet. First, he scanned the names on it to make sure no on was named Jim. No one was. Then he scanned it to see if Andrew was there. He wasn't. As he filled in his name he told her he really was done with all this, that he was just there to make a friend of his shut up. She seemed unimpressed as she glanced at the part he had listed.

"Felix," she said. "Really."

Without saying a word, Lee took the sheet back, crossed out Felix and wrote in Murray, then added The Cop, just to make sure she knew that he knew enough about the play to know that Murray was a cop. She handed him a couple of photocopied™ pieces of paper that were stapled together.

"Your sides," she said.

"My huh?"

She just pointed at the papers, which were of a scene from the play with Murray in it. Lee pulled his copy of the play out of his jacket pocket and told her he didn't need it. She was momentarily impressed. Then she asked him if his copy was marked with where they wanted the scene to start and where they wanted it to end. He shook his head no in bewilderment and took the sides. He glanced at where the markings were on the pages and handed it back to her. She waved him away, so he took his script and wandered around the lobby of the theatre. There were several other actors and a few actresses there, all wandering around reading sides and gesticulating to themselves. Lee was relieved that none of them were Jim. And disappointed that none were Andrew.

"Oh," a voice behind him said. "Hi."

He turned and saw Veronica standing there in her loose-fitting splendor, smelling of wild-flowers. Lee was relieved to discover that nothing stirred but discomfort.

"Hi," he said.

"Auditioning?"

"Yeah. Well. I'm really done with all this. I'm only here because they kicked me out of my house."

She looked at him very oddly so he added that Peter was throwing him a house warming party, and she nodded knowingly.

"Yeah," she said. "Tonight. Well. Break-a-leg."

"Oh. Um. Yeah. Thanks. You, too."

As she walked away, a little something stirred but he sternly told it to behave itself.

Lee found a padded bench in the lobby to sit on and watched everyone do all the strange and interesting things they all did to get ready for or avoid thinking about their audition. The theatre door opened and an actor came out, followed shortly by Kim Anderson, carrying a clipboard. Lee was quite surprised to see her, and had a strange impulse to call her Loni. Kim looked at the sign-in sheet, called out a name and another actor gathered his things and followed her in. This happened several times, and Lee continued watching people come and go. When Kim called his name, his heart lurched. He hadn't expected that. He was done with all this, after all. Kim seemed surprised and pleased to see him, and told him she was Agnes's assistant director and would be stage managing.

"It's really good to see you here," she said as she led him in.

"I'm really done with all this, you know," he said to her.

"Do you have your sides?" she asked and he showed her his copy of the script. She nodded and smiled.

"Lee, darling," Agnes said when she looked up and saw him. "How nice to see you."

He told her he was just there because Peter and Abby had kicked him out of the house. Kim laughed.

"The housewarming thing," she said. "Should be fun."

Agnes had him go up on the stage. The gold, sparkly curtain was closed, but didn't seem nearly as sparkly with no spotlights shining on it. There was one old wooden kitchen chair on the stage, and he stood near that looking out at them while they talked. Agnes told him he could sit if he liked, and he did. She chatted with him for a moment about what seemed like nothing in particular, then said she understood he was reading for Murray.

"Yeah," he said. "I guess so."

Agnes had Kim read all the other parts in the scene. Lee didn't want to be there at all. Except that he really did. A lot. That's mostly what he was thinking about when he read the lines. Then Agnes thanked him, and Lee realized it was all over. He had somehow expected so much more. As he climbed off the stage and walked up the aisle, Agnes and Kim talked quietly, but intently, and Kim took notes on her clipboard. Just as he got to the theatre door, Kim looked up and sweetly said that she looked forward to the party.

That was it. His final audition. No fanfare. He hadn't done badly, but hadn't done particularly well. He hadn't skipped over any lines or mangled any words, but had felt kind of like a board member reading someone else's report. In fact, it felt like the whole experience had been an afterthought for Agnes and Kim as much as it had been for him. Well, he could now tell everyone that he really was done with all this and to leave him alone about it all, damn it.

He still had two and a half hours before he would be allowed back into his house. He thought about going to Twain's to help out, but Twain had given him the day off to get ready for his party, and it would be just too embarrassing trying to explain why he was back. He sat in his car with his hands on the wheel, just looking at the snow-covered landscape around Willow Lane. The chill felt good, the sky had a pleasant light gray cast to it and the air smelled of small town comfort. Beverly really doesn't know what she's missing, he thought, and put the key in the ignition. He was surprised to find himself stopping in front of Mom's Used Records, figured his car knew something he didn't and went in to see what trouble he could get in to.

Lee breathed in the smell of damp wood, dry cardboard and conflicting stale incenses, then spent over an hour becoming familiar with everything in the shop. He picked up the Beatles Anthology several times and put it back down, and ended up leaving with a bag full of ninety-nine cent greatest hits of the sixties, seventies and eighties compilations. Not one of them was even from Rhino. Mom was very happy to be rid of them.

Lee was amazed by what Abby and Peter had accomplished. The house was gorgeous. Like a smaller scale version of the Taj Mahal. Well, maybe a smaller scale version of a cocktail lounge at the MGM Grand. Well, maybe the men's room at the Whiskey A-Go-Go. They had done more than he could have imagined possible from a few bags and a box of stuff. He wanted to thank Abby by hugging her. He wanted to thank Peter by giving him a nice plant. The folding chairs that Abby brought were set around the living room, and Lee noticed that they all had "HOLIDAY" stenciled on the back in orange.

The fireplace crackled and popped comfortably. People started shuffling in shortly after seven. Most brought housewarming gifts. Abby told Lee that if he dared tell anyone they shouldn't have or that he hadn't gotten them anything she would move his couch. The house filled quickly with the smell of fireplace smoke, food and the many colognes and perfumes of the people who filled the house quickly. Lee started the party playing cool jazz, but quickly migrated toward medium jazz. After a couple of martinis, he moved up to hot jazz. Every time someone arrived, the living room was filled with a blast of wonderfully cold air that warmed quickly as it mingled with the party goers.

Abby came into the living room looking for Lee and saw him leaning against the wall, just watching the people. He caught her eye and blushed, so she did, also. She crossed the room and leaned on the wall next to him.

"Hi, Harris."

"Hi, Holiday."

"I like where you put the thing," she said.

"Yeah," he replied, watching the growing throng, "it works there, doesn't it? Thanks."

They both watched for a while, but Abby had to join in, so she left with a small glance Lee's way.

Bear came in and handed Lee a masculinely wrapped gift. (Masculinely wrapped gift? It was wrapped in muscle, Geoff. Have it your way. I always do.) It was a cordless screwdriver. (Aren't all screwdrivers cordless, Steve? Steve? Don't even talk to me.) He knew what to get a man to make him happy.

"Nice sound system," he said.

"Sound system," Lee corrected. "I mean... um. Thanks."

Lee took him down to the basement to show him his work bench and was amazed to discover that Peter had transformed the workbench into an hors d'oeuvre and drink table. The basement looked like it could have been the entire party. The pounding of the bass and the people dancing to it above them shook the air in the room. Lee felt it charge his bones and invigorate his chest cavity and legs. He leaned over to turn the knob and music joined the bass thrum.

"This place is cool," Bear said.

"With the havoc Beverly wreaked on my credit, I'm surprised I even got it."

"What are you talking about?" Bear said, sipping from his bottle of cold, domestic beer, "they should have given it to you."

Lee looked at him for a very long time, then finally asked what he meant.

"It's haunted."

"Yeah," Lee laughed. "Ha ha. Roger's Room. Slipped on the ice here, too, huh? Fool me once, shame on me."

"No, shame on you. And I'm serious. Some girl, I think. Korean war. Her soldier didn't come home or something."

Lee didn't know what to think, so he went back upstairs. Bear followed. When they got to the kitchen, Bear pointed out the scratches on the bottom of the basement door and told Lee he could fix that for him. Lee stared at it.

"I did fix it."

"Well," Bear said. "You didn't do a very good job."

Bear turned to rejoin the party, but Lee just stood looking at what looked like freshly painted gouges in the bottom of his door. He mimed the motions of puttying and sanding in the air in front of himself, trying to remember if he had just dreamed doing it.

"Everything okay?" Peter asked.

Lee jumped, was about to point out the scratches, then assured Peter everything was fine. Kim swooped into the room, saw Lee and gave him a huge hug. He was startled at first, then hugged her back. Her perfume smelled of allure, obsession and private moments and a little remained on Lee's cheek when she pulled away.

"It was great seeing you today," she said, and he nodded. "Great party," she said, and he nodded again.

Then she hugged him again, and left the room. Lee stood there, very bewildered, then saw Abby standing in the kitchen doorway. He felt strangely guilty. She came over to him and handed him a new martini.

"Having fun?" she asked.

He nodded, then was surprised to see Stella come in the front door, followed by a fresh cold blast and accompanied by her perfume, which was wearing a stylish gown and pearls. Peter saw her and shouted from across the room,

"You did come."

It only tripped Stella up momentarily.

"Yes, Peter. Observant as always. Oh, hi, Lee."

She A-frame hugged Lee, air kissed his cheek. Her perfume didn't stick to his face. Lee saw Abby see that and didn't feel the least bit guilty. Stella handed him a small, wrapped gift. Lee shook it.

"Hand towels," he said. "Turkish. Thanks."

Stella nodded and looked for booze. Lee went into the living room to pump up the tunes. He put on The Cars greatest hits, but there were several loud objections to that, so he replaced it with one of the collections he'd bought that afternoon. The first song on it was "My Best Friend's Girl."

When Andrew and his wife got there, Andrew stopped just inside the door and looked around with an odd expression on his face.

"Hi, Andrew," Peter said. "Everything okay?"

Andrew shut the door, took his coat off and said that the house just felt really familiar, but he couldn't place it. Peter suggested that it was because he had helped clean it that night, but he said it had felt familiar that night too. Peter led them to the food.

Shortly after eleven-thirty, the crowd from Of Mice and Men started arriving. They joined and increased the laughter and chatter and music and mingling and clinking of plastic glasses and beer bottles and the smell of bodies and cosmetics and fun and the kinetic sense of Brownian motion in the air. A final layer of restraint lifted from the crowded room, which seemed to breathe more easily as it filled. The door breezed open and Agnes entered. The quality of the cold air that followed her was, somehow, different. When the door shut, the air didn't. She held what looked like a bird cage draped with a towel. It took a moment for anyone to notice that she was escorted by Jim who was wearing a thick coat and Dockers™ knock-offs and had a very bemused look on his face, like a small rabbit who had just seen his first logging truck. Jim stopped short when he saw Lee, and the look turned to that of the rabbit after the truck passed over it and it realized that it wasn't dead, but that it didn't have to go to the bathroom anymore. Lee was really surprised to see Jim in any state in his living room, and glanced over at Peter, who stared at Jim, then turned away quickly and looked at Stella, who looked back at him, then at Jim, then at the booze.

"Isn't that the guy from the play?" Mrs. Divine asked Andrew. "The one who killed the dog?"

Andrew nodded.

"It looks like he's lost weight," she said.

Peter slumped into a folding chair, then got up and poured himself a large drink. With lots of brown stuff and a little clear stuff. And an ice cube. And a twist of lemon. He went out back and stood on the back stoop breathing deeply and shivering. A moment later the back door opened again, and Stella stood there with a large drink that was more clear stuff than brown stuff. She was also breathing deeply. And shivering.

"Agnes," Peter said, and Stella nodded, nonplused. "He left me for Agnes. I could even understand if he'd left me for you. Sort of. I guess. But Agnes, for God's sake. What's wrong with me?"

"Hey, he left me for you," Stella reminded Peter. "And then when he left you he still didn't come back to me. What's wrong with him?"

"He was never with you."

Stella had to agree. She didn't like it much, though.

"Agnes," she said again, and they stood there bonding in misery. "And what's with that Abby person?"

Peter stopped bonding with her and told her Abby was a very nice person who seemed to make Lee happy. When Lee let her. Stella gave him a "but how can you, of all people, be happy that anyone you know is happy with someone else" look. Peter gave her an "I'm sorry, were you looking at me?" look. She changed the subject back to Agnes.

"Agnes," she said.

"And miles to go before I weep."

"Sleep."

"What?"

"And miles to go before I sleep. Walt Whitman."

"I know, but I don't want to sleep," he said. "And it's Robert Frost."

"Wasn't he that British talk show guy?"

Peter gave her a "we already did this in installment ten, except it was with Lee, not you, but it was about poetry so stop it. And that was David Frost" look. The door opened and Lee came out, preceded by the sounds of the party and followed by the smell of all those perfumes dancing with all those colognes. And brie.

"Did you invite him?" he asked Peter.

He understood the look Peter gave him perfectly.

"He's lost weight," Peter said, and no one argued with him. "She's not feeding him well."

"Or she is," Stella said, and all three of them shuddered and took a big slug of whatever was in their respective glasses.

Peter leaned against the rail and stared out at the snow which refused to look depressing no matter how much he wanted it to. Lee went back inside and noticed Jim start and hide behind Agnes when he saw him. Agnes handed Lee the thing that looked like a birdcage. He lifted the towel. It was a birdcage. With a bird in it. A sparrow. A yellow one. A stupid bird.

"Um," he said, sincerely, then added, "thanks."

"A bird brings luck to a house," Agnes said and hugged him, then led Jim to the food and fed him a bit of cracker with dip on it. Her perfume checked the union rules and decided it didn't have to work just then.

"There you are," Abby said when she spotted him holding the bird. "Put that down, Twain is here."

"Twain? You mean from Twain's?"

Abby smiled, took the bird and pushed Lee in Twain's direction. Twain was standing just inside the living room, wearing a silly hat, carrying a big pot with steam coming out of it. Matt stood just behind him with a box of Saltines and a big grin. The room stopped again, but this time to take in the new smell, which was a mixture of ground beef, pepper, onion and some secret ingredient.

"Uncle Hubert's Five Alarm Chili," someone said with an edge of awe, and they all crowded around Twain as he brought the chili into the kitchen.

Peter got bowls, and he, Matt and Twain started serving it to everyone. He didn't even mind being upstaged by chili. This batch tasted even better than the one Peter had made the weekend Lee broke the diner. This batch was made with love. Or, rather, with Twain's blood, sweat and tears. It was really made with blood, sweat and tears. O negative. When everyone was served, Lee, who was strangely thrilled to have Twain in his house, offered him a tour.

They started with the bathroom, which wasn't much besides a bathroom. Twain looked around, seeming sort of unimpressed. Lee pointed out the picture of the Partridge Family that Twain had given him which he had hung over the john. Twain cocked his head a little to the left and nodded once.

"Shirley Jones," he said. "She's a dish."

The second bedroom was empty except for the people standing in it drinking and laughing and a little yellow sparrow in a cage. Twain looked the room over with the same level of enthusiasm with which he had looked over the bathroom. Lee started to worry that nothing in his house would impress Twain. The main bedroom, with the bed full of coats and purses, received little acknowledgment from, nor stirred any emotion in Twain.

They went out to the garage, which was very quiet and dark after the happy throng in the house. Twain wandered around, looking at boxes, unimpressed. Lee was strangely disappointed, then strangely embarrassed that he felt disappointed that Twain wasn't impressed with his garage. Lee wasn't even impressed with his garage, except that he actually had one. He shivered and suggested they go back inside. Peter was still on the back porch, shivering and commiserating with Meg Foster. Her wonderful blue eyes were colder than the snow and matched his mood perfectly.

When Lee and Twain climbed the stoop, Twain pointed down at the burn mark on the step.

"Snake pellets," Twain said.

Lee was sorry he had embarked on this whole tour thing. Now that he had started, however, he had to finish and take Twain down into the basement, it would seem odd not to, but he would be really upset if the only thing that caused any perturbations in Twain's calm were Shirley Jones and a snake stained stoop. They traveled through the living room. It was filled with more people than Lee thought could possibly fit in his entire house and a little yellow sparrow in a cage and Lee suddenly thought of an old Chinese man with seven faces.

The wife of the man who played Charley and the doctor was standing in the doorway to the stairs to the basement with her bejeweled hand pressed against her chest and an odd look on her face. (Uncle Hubert? No, Steve.)

"What's the matter?" her husband asked.

"I don't know," she said. "I just feel sad."

She stepped down to the first stair.

"I'm better now," she said, and continued blithely on to the basement.

Twain looked around the crowded basement with the same unperturbed demeanor and Lee was about to just give up. Twain wasn't even moved by the dart board and the dart that just missed him as he moved toward the workbench, upon which was sitting the bird cage with the little yellow sparrow in it. Then Twain glanced under the food and cage bedecked workbench. On the lower shelf, just visible under the table cloth, was the gas mask. His pupils dilated and his pants tented. In the back.

"M17A2," he said.

"No," Lee said. "It's an M95."

Twain nodded once and almost smiled. A chorus of angels sang. Two straight men bonded. Twain didn't even have to ask about the axe. Lee was, at last, happy.

When he got back upstairs, Abby was again looking for him. She handed him a drink and told him there was a policeman at the door. It was Officer Bacon.

"Oh, hello," Lee said. "I'm sorry, are we making too much noise?"

"Oh, good heavens no. It's only twelve-thirty. It's winter. Everyone's windows are closed. There are trees separating your house from your neighbors. You could be getting murdered and no one would know. No, I just brought you this," he said and handed Lee a box with a bow on it.

Lee shook it, then opened it. It was a nice, stone bust of Franz Liszt, with the dates of his birth and death on the base.

"What's this?"

"Franz Liszt," Officer Bacon said. "Arguably the greatest pianist of all time. Not a great composer, but he did write some fairly nifty tunes. When you get a piano, this will go nicely on it. Happy house warming."

Lee smiled, shook his head and thanked him. They shook hands, and Officer Bacon nodded.

"Oh, by the way," he said over his shoulder as he turned to leave. "Fireworks are illegal within the city limits."

He nodded again, smiled and continued on his beat. Lee turned back to the room in time to see Agnes slow-dancing with Jim in the middle of the living room to Earth Wind and Fire's "September". Someone next to Lee shuddered. It was Bear, who then smiled and said that Jim was great dark theatre. Lee said that he usually liked dark theatre, but not when it was happening to him. Bear laughed and re-entered the fray. Lee wasn't joking, and stayed on the edge.

"Oh, there you are," Abby said and put her arm around Lee's back. Lee showed her the bust.

"Helluva pianist," she said.

"Couldn't sing worth a lick," Lee said.

Finally, the throng started to thin. Just like Steve's hair. (Hey! That's getting personal. Okay, I'll take it out. Thanks. No problem.) Lee was in the kitchen fixing himself a prosciuto on Triscuit with mayo, cream cheese and an olive with no pimento hors d'oeuvre. The little yellow sparrow glared at him from inside its cage. Lee had the brief thought that he was being judged, and not kindly. He turned his back on the dreadful thing. Then he felt guilty and dropped some cracker crumbs from the counter into the cage. The bird just glared. Lee turned his back again.

"Oh, there you are," Abby said and gave him a little hug. "Agnes is leaving and wants to say goodbye."

Lee suffered through shaking Jim's hand while muttering something about him not sucking in the play.

"Thanks," Jim said, his eyes wide, his stance straight and tall for the first time all night. "That means so much..."

Lee gave him a "I was just being polite, idiot, this is not open for discussion" look and glared at him. He looked like the little yellow sparrow without the cage. Jim stooped and seemed to fade behind Agnes. Lee kissed Agnes on the cheek and they left. When he kissed the wife of the guy who played Charley and the doctor on the cheek, he left a vug in her makeup.

There were only a few people left in the living room, and the lights seemed, somehow, too bright, like a bar at last call. The living room also looked a little tired, like it had been holding the entire population of Jakarta, Indonesia and two guys from Butte for a few hours too long. When Kim left, she gave Lee a huge, full-bodied hug and a gentle kiss. Over her shoulder, Lee noticed Abby notice.

Finally, Abby, Peter and Lee sat, alone, on the couch, exhausted, but happy. Lee looked at Peter, wondering if they could fit a few more commas into the sentence.

"How are you doing?" he said, and when Peter didn't understand he added, "About Jim."

"It's only a one slice of cheese crisis," Peter said with a small sigh, then looked around the living room. "What A Dump," he said.

"I'm going to start cleaning up," Abby said and lurched off the couch.

Lee and Peter also lurched and headed toward the kitchen to start in there.

"It's okay, Peter," Abby said. "I'll take care of it."

Peter was about to object, then saw a strange, confused look on Lee's face. Then he saw the strange, shy look on Abby's.

"Oh," he said, his heart pounding with embarrassment. "I completely forgot. I have to feed Cliche. She's probably already killed a rat by now. And I'm really tired. And I forgot to set the VCR for The English Patient. And and and..."

"It's okay, Peter," Abby said. "We can take care of it."

"I'm so sorry to leave it all to you."

"It's all right. Really. We've got it taken care of. Go feed Cliche."

"Thanks for the party," Lee said. He looked like he really wanted to put his arm around Abby, and if Peter didn't leave very soon, might have to do it right in front of him.

Peter got his coat, and ducked into the kitchen quickly to pick up a slice of Swiss cheese and put it in his pocket. Then he picked up a few more, just in case, and left without looking back.

Abby and Lee stood staring into the fading fire, a few inches from each other. Abby looked up at Lee. He looked back at her.

"I really just kind of..." Lee said. "Um."

"What?"

He shrugged, and she put her hand on his elbow and asked him again. He leaned over and kissed her very gently on the lips, then pulled back, flush and flustered.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I just... it's really..."

She looked at his eyes for what seemed like a whole lot of seconds when, really, it was only a small portion of a whole lot of seconds. Then she grabbed him around the waist, pulled him to her and kissed him back. He stood stiff and frozen for what seemed like a whole lot of seconds and really was a whole lot of seconds, then realized she meant it and put his arms around her. A whole lot of seconds later, he pulled away and looked at her face.

"Um," he said. "Maybe we can clean up in the morning."

She seemed to agree. But first, Lee picked up a few empty glasses and set them in the kitchen.

Abby woke up with a start. The room was dark with a few streaks of moonlight shining through the window onto the towel that covered the birdcage on the bedside table, and Lee's arms were still around her. He stirred and his eyes fluttered open groggily.

"You okay?" he asked. At least that's what he hoped he had asked. To his ears it sounded sort of like "uuu way?"

"Did you hear that?"

He hadn't.

"Do your neighbors have a baby?"

"I think one of them has a dog," Lee said and played with her hair. His mouth was beginning to work better. "I hear it sometimes."

"No, it sounded like crying. Like a young girl."

"The house settling," he explained. "I'm getting used to it."

"That's weird settling," she said, and he shrugged. Then he kissed her gently, and cocked his head to the side. She asked what was wrong.

"Nothing," he said. "Just... Um. What changed your mind?"

She smiled and recounted the moment when he had told her that her car was being towed.

"It was the first time I didn't hear Beverly in your voice," she said, and leaned in toward him.

Across town, a train went into a tunnel. In a pasture near Veronica Park, nocturnal bees flitted from winter flower to flower, night-time birds flew from tree to tree and a lone skater glided across the ice on the pond in graceful arcs. The River Bend Symphony timpanist practiced his part in Rossini's 1812 Overture. Bolero blared from the little, batter-encrusted radio in Twain's kitchen. An earthquake rumbled in Southern Japan, a volcano in Fiji blew steam, smoke, ash and molten stone into the sky and an ice berg in Antarctica broke in two and slid into the ocean.

The hum of a street sweeper lulled the animals in the San Diego Zoo to sleep.

On Sunday, after they had cleaned up and Abby had left, Lee fixed the scratches in the door to the basement again, then headed for Twain's to work.

On Monday afternoon, Lee called the theatre from Twain's to see if he'd been cast.

"Not that I care, really," he said. "I'm really done with all that."

"Uh huh," Stella said. "Yeah, you got the part."

"Murray?" He didn't want to sound excited.

"Murray? No, Lee. Roy."

"Roy? The accountant?"

"Quite a stretch. Think you can handle it?"

Lee said he would try. Stella gave him the time, date and place of the first rehearsal and he hung up. Twain looked at him again. He'd been doing that all day. Lee didn't mind at all.

The first rehearsal was in Agnes's living room. There was a big fold-out banquet table set up, and Agnes and a few other actors were already sitting at it when Lee arrived. Kim handed him a script. He told her he already had his own, but she said he might as well use that one. He sat down and started to introduce himself to another actor when Jim came in from the hallway. Jim flinched when he saw Lee, and slumped a little. Oh, God, Lee thought. I hope he's not going to be sitting in on the rehearsals. Jim sat at the table as far away from Lee as he could. Then he moved his chair back a few inches. Then he took his script out of his pocket and opened it.