Peter threw back his head and shouted, "Stella!"

Just then, something very small attached to something very big hit the left side of his jaw and he was knocked soundly sideways and spun twice in lopsided circles on the snow, then slid slowly to a stop as a large woman scrambled over to him, screaming.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, are you okay? I'm so sorry. God, I'm so sorry. Are you okay? Oh, Peter, are you okay?"

Peter shook his head a little, then rubbed the place where her galosh had contacted his face. He was sure she had knocked a couple of fillings loose. He could taste mercury. Or was that blood? Yes, salty iron. Blood. He felt around the inside of his mouth with his tongue to make sure all the teeth were still attached. They were, but there was a knot on the left side of the tongue that was probably the source of the taste. At least the blow had knocked the thought of Jim and Stella out of his head.

"Ahhhh!" he said in anguish.

"Oh, my God," the woman said. "Did I break your jaw? Do you need me to call an ambulance?"

"No," he said and shook his head to punctuate the answer. "It's just Jim."

Peter sat up, carefully avoiding looking up at the top of the hill in case They were still there. Roz sat in the snow next to him and held his back while he finished examining his face with his hand to make sure nothing was broken.

"Damn, Roz, didn't you see me sitting there?"

"Of course I saw you. How could I miss that big head of yours? I couldn't change course. I yelled at you, didn't you hear me?"

"Obviously not," Peter said. His head was slowing down a bit, but the throbbing in his jaw was increasing. He'd have a big bump there in the morning. And his headache would be more than just a hangover headache.

"If you don't want an ambulance at least let me take you home."

Peter tried to stand, and finally managed with Roz's help. When he bent over to pick up his inner tube his head started to spin again, so he froze in a very funny looking half bow. Roz laughed, made him straighten up and picked up the tube for him. The trip up the hill was a scene from a Max Sennett movie. Roz held Peter's tube under one arm and steadied Peter with the other and they slid back several feet several times. Twice Peter landed forward on all fours, and at least three times Roz landed on Peter's tube and had to climb back up to where he was to help him. When they finally got to the top, Roz made him sit in the tube, then went back for her inner tube, which, it seemed, was the snow conveyance of choice for robust people. (Conveyance, Geoff? Sure. You hadn't interrupted yet, so I figured I'd force the issue. Actually, I liked it. Then why did you question it? Because I hadn't interrupted, yet. Anyway, it's a legitimate English word. I use the whole English language. Use "ergo". Can't fail with ergo: Ergo, I was walking down the street, when, ergo, a car sped by. "Ergo," I said. Thanks, Steve. We'll use my word. Ermine? No, Steve.) She struggled up the hill with her tube, and plopped down by Peter, winded. No one had offered to help.

"Guys need any help?" one of the college students asked, then swayed dangerously and was escorted away by his friends.

"I haven't seen you since you stood me up for lunch, and you kick me in the face?" Peter said. His words were a little slurred and he wasn't sure if that was generated by alcohol or boot.

"Are you still mad at me for that?" Roz asked.

"No, no," Peter said. "I have so many other things to be mad at."

"I was really sick," she said. "I ate a bad blintz."

Peter laughed, then grabbed his jaw and Roz suggested that she should take him home.

"What about my car?" he asked.

She said they could come back for it the next day.

"What about my urns?" he asked.

She said they could put them in the car before they left.

"They're not empty, yet," he said, and she threatened to kick him in the other jaw.

Fifty-seven minutes later she pulled into his driveway. (I wonder who had the very first driveway. Caesar. He had a Ford Probe. Now that's just stupid. That sounds like Jack Benny. Thanks.)

"Your place is really messy," Roz said when Peter opened his front door.

"Sorry," he said.

She smiled and shrugged. Peter pushed some magazines from the couch and offered her a blintz.

"No," she said. "I'm taking care of you, here."

"Oh," he said, and sat down, not sure how to react to that. It wasn't something that happened often. Not since that night when he'd seen Last Tango in Paris.

"What did you mean when you said 'Jim' after I kicked you in the face?"

"Oh," Peter said. "That."

He really didn't want to go into all that with her. He didn't want to go into all that with anyone. Maybe Lee, but Lee was entwined. Peter's eyes started to tear up.

"What's wrong, Peter?" Roz said, and when he just shook his head, added, "It's okay. How bad can it be? What, did you kill someone?"

He laughed.

"No, I didn't kill anyone," he said. "I just slept with him."

He really hadn't planned on saying that at all, and covered his mouth with his hand. The pain in his jaw completely disappeared and his entire body felt flushed and he tried to figure out a way to take it back, which made his eyes tear up more. Roz pulled him to her and held him, stroking his back, and he was really surprised when he started to cry really hard. She rocked him a little and held him tightly and patted him and smoothed his hair and let him cry without saying anything. He was really embarrassed. Then his nose started to run and he pulled away from her and started laughing and looking for a tissue. The box he'd brought out for Jim the other night was still on the coffee table and Roz pulled several out and handed them to him.

"Thanks," he said, then, after robustly blowing his nose, added, "sorry."

"There's nothing to be sorry about," Roz said. "Who's Jim?"

Peter sighed deeply. He really didn't know how to cry on someone's shoulder. It was entirely the wrong perspective. He didn't know where to start. If he'd been sitting where she was, he'd know exactly what to ask and what to say and what to do and what meal to cook, but nothing was familiar from this vantage point. He decided to just tell her the whole story about Jim. Which, of course, meant telling her the whole story about Lee because of the whole "Jim came to town to find Lee" thing. He had only ever really talked to Lee about Jim and had never talked to anyone about Lee. Not even Stella, although she probably knew how he felt about him. Damn her. Once he started talking, it all kind of came out without any conscious thought or decision on his part. So this is what having a shoulder to cry on felt like. When he got to the part where Jim stayed the night on his couch, then turned up two nights later at Beard's Hill with Stella, of all people, he sputtered to a stop. Then he felt really embarrassed again.

"So," he said. "I'm gay."

"I kind of guessed," she said.

"When?"

"When you told me you slept with Jim, stupid."

"You mean you didn't know all along?"

"How would I know?"

"I don't know."

"I mean, you don't dress like Paul Lynde."

"Paul Lynde was gay?"

"Come on, Peter."

"Well? Did he ever say it?"

"Not to me, but come on."

"So," Peter said. "You don't mind?"

"Why should I mind? We're not sleeping together."

Roz took his hands and looked at him.

"You okay?"

He nodded and thanked her.

"So," she said. "I've always been curious. What don't you like about women?"

Peter had to think about this.

"It's not what I don't like about women," he said finally. "It's more what I do like about men."

"Have you ever been with a woman?"

Peter shook his head.

"I haven't even been with very many men," he said. "I have been curious, of course."

"Really?"

He shrugged. He was really embarrassed, but it felt good to talk about it.

"Sure. But it would have to be the perfect woman and the perfect circumstances."

When she asked what those circumstances would be he said he hadn't ever thought that far, then considered it for a moment.

"I don't know. What are the qualifications for a perfect man?"

"Turgid."

He laughed, then really tried to answer her question honestly.

"I guess she'd have to be really kind and patient. She'd really have to have a sense of humor, obviously. I mean look at me. Intelligent would help, so we could talk after. But not too much. No psychologist, I'm already scarred enough."

They both laughed, and he continued to describe the perfect trial woman. Roz started looking at him funny. She really liked what he was saying. He was describing her perfect man. Actually, with his vulnerability and honesty, he was her perfect man. Except that what he really wanted was the perfect man. He continued talking until he saw the look in her eyes and slowed down, then stopped. They just looked at each other for a very long time.

"Oh," Peter said.

Roz took his hand.

"And... And... She... I... She'd... Um."

Roz leaned in toward him. At first he pulled away, startled, then realized what she was doing and leaned toward her. It took a moment for them to figure out how to position their faces, but they finally kissed. It didn't last long, and when Peter sat back, his head was spinning. Not because it had been a great kiss, but because he had never expected to find himself on his couch late on a Friday night kissing a woman.

"How was that?" Roz asked sheepishly. Peter hadn't imagined Roz could ever sound sheepish.

"Fine," he said and looked at her. "Um. Now, what?"

"I don't know," she said. "Can we go someplace where there's a little more room. I mean, neither of us are a size five."

"You mean like the bed room?"

She nodded.

"Really?"

She nodded again and stood. He reluctantly stood and she followed him into his bedroom.

"This is even messier," she said, and they stood by the bed looking at each other, not sure what to do.

Cliche, who had been sleeping on the small pile of old tee shirts and socks on the bed, awoke, looked at them, shook his head sadly and left to finish his sleep on the couch. He hated it when Peter drank. You never knew what he might drag in.

"Should we..." Peter said. "Um. Undress or something?"

Roz laughed, unfastened his overall straps, then unbuttoned and removed his flannel shirt. He raised his arms and she took his tee-shirt off, then put her arms out so he could take her blouse off. He very carefully unbuttoned it, pulling at the fabric so he didn't accidentally touch her, and she started to laugh.

"What?"

"You can touch me, Peter," she said.

He laughed, then relaxed a little and got her blouse unbuttoned. They carefully removed the rest of their clothing, then stood looking at each other. (This is starting to remind me of 9˝ Weeks. Really, Steve? No. Isn't that the movie where the big truck chases the little car? Sure, Steve. Film school. This scene is what gives Weeping Willow an R rating. Have you been to a movie in the last fifteen years, Steve? I saw Badlands last night. Good. Now shut up.)

"What do you think?" Roz asked, and Peter started laughing. "Oh, thanks."

"No. Sorry," Peter said. "I just never could figure out why everyone was so interested in those."

"These?" Roz asked, shaking them a little.

"Yeah. I thought it might be different if I saw one live." He studied them a little longer, then laughed again. "I mean, they always just seemed like mounds of fat to me."

"Yeah," she said, "but what fun mounds."

They laughed and fell into the bed together.

Lee was acting insufferably silly, and Abby was having a hard time maneuvering him into his bed. It would have been difficult even if he hadn't been hopped up on booze and pain killers, what with the fractured coccyx and all, but silliness really got in the way. She carefully led him to the edge of the bed, made him carefully lean down to the right butt cheek and roll onto the bed.

"Weeee," he said. "Let's do that again."

"Last time you said that," Abby said as she unbuckled his belt, "you fractured your coccyx."

As she undid his shoes and pulled off his socks, Lee started singing Misty.

"Kitten," he sang loudly. "Up a tree!"

Abby carefully pulled at his pant legs to remove his trousers.

"Come on," Lee said. "Sing with me. Ladies in the back do harmony. Men on the right, bop bop. Come on, I get Misty..."

Abby shook her head and covered him with the blankets and folded the pants.

"You're no fun."

"I'm not on painkillers."

"Want some?"

Abby considered it. Twice. Then she turned the light off instead and went out to sit in the living room. Every now and then, a small phrase from some song floated out of the bed room, each getting less and less recognizable as music, until the last one became a light snore.

"And I had condoms and everything," Abby said to herself, then chuckled. "Well, I guess it is sort of my fault. I guess. Fractured his coccyx. The dope."

Still chuckling, she got a beer from the refrigerator then settled back down on the couch. She wasn't the least bit tired. She occupied herself for a little while looking around the room. That got boring really fast, and she considered turning on the TV. She reached for the remote and heard a little noise.

"Lee?" she asked.

It was quiet. She got up and looked into the bedroom. Lee was sleeping soundly, snoring lightly, drooling softly, a strange grin on his face. She left the door open a little so she could hear him and went back to the couch and turned on the television. There was some soap opera on about an accountant from Chicago who went to a small town to join a theatre troupe but that seemed just too trite. She flipped past all the white snow channels. The only other show that was on was a documentary about Jakarta, Indonesia. She settled in to watch that. She really enjoyed it, but that has nothing to do with this story.

Then she heard the noise again. It was a little louder and sounded like something scratching at the door. She froze in place and listened really hard. Of course, when you listen that hard, the only thing you can hear is your own heartbeat and your teeth grinding against each other. And your joints crackle. And a tree falling in the woods. She forced herself to relax, told herself not to be stupid, and reached for the remote again to turn down the television. This time, the scratch was joined by a small whimpering that could have been a baby crying. Or it could have been a bear. Or it could have been a cougar. Or it could have been a badger... (Steve, I have your mom on the phone. She said "Fuck." She did not. She never has. She never would. I just needed you to stop. It worked. Good. Could have been an ermine. Hey!)

Very slowly, Abby put the remote control down on the couch cushion, then sat very still. The flickering glow from the now quiet television was very disquieting, but turning it off would involve movement, which didn't seem possible right now. The scratch came again, and this time it sounded like it came from the kitchen.

"That's not funny, Lee," she said, hoarsely, but Lee was busy dreaming about typing through a square of correction paper on an old Smith Corona manual typewriter that didn't have any ribbon, while Jimmy Hendrix was in the background playing Misty on a tuba naked while eating Space Food Sticks, so he wasn't any help at all. Those painkillers were good.

Maybe it was the bird.

"Bird?" she said and looked around for it. It was in its cage, near the television, perched on its little perch, just staring at her stupidly. It still had no expression on its stupid little yellow face. She was beginning to understand why Lee hated the thing so much. The kitchen scratched again. The bird hadn't moved.

She forced herself to stand, then stood for a very long time between the couch and the coffee table. When there was no sound for a long time, she started to move out from behind the table just as another scratching sound bounced out of the kitchen. She grabbed the nearest item from the table and froze. Then she forced herself to step one step toward the sound, her entire brain shouting "Don't Go Into the Woods" and "Get Out of the House, Now!" and "Follow the Yellow Brick Road." The step she took made the floor creak and she shrieked, then laughed a weak laugh, then she noticed what she had picked up. It was a roll of paper towels. It had little roses and ivy on the edges. It was double ply. (Wait, Lee's gay? No, Steve, it was on sale. He's an accountant. Oh. Okay. Come on, let's go.)

"What the hell are you going to do with that, smarty?" Abby said to the room. "Wipe them out?"

She started to laugh out loud at that and a whimpering joined her. The jolt that ran up her spine propelled her forward. She dropped the paper towels, roses and all, sprinted to the bedroom and climbed into bed next to Lee. She clung to his back. His completely relaxed, limp body was an extreme contrast to her rigid, shivering one.

"Lee?" she said quietly, hoping her shriek or laughter had roused him. "Lee?"

She prodded him in the back softly, just to make sure. Then she took out a chainsaw and cut off his left arm. No, he was sound asleep. (Steve? Yes. You know she doesn't have a chainsaw there in the bedroom, don't you? It's Lee's house. Mr. Tool Guy. No chainsaw, Steve. An ermine?) She realized Lee wasn't going to save her from whatever was lurking in the kitchen, but at least she wouldn't die alone. The stupid bird cheeped once, stupidly, and Abby buried her face into Lee's back.

The covers from Peter's bed were in a tangle on the floor, the pillows were soaked and he and Roz were on the floor beside the bed, breathing hard and laughing.

"I'm sorry," Peter said through his laughter.

"About what? That was the most fun I've ever had having sex."

"Technically, we didn't have sex," Peter reminded her.

"Then that was the most fun I've ever had not having sex," she said.

Peter laughed then pushed himself up and stood.

"Hungry?"

"Sure, I could use a snack," she said, and she stood, picked up the tangled blanket and brought it into the living room.

She could hear Peter rattling around in the kitchen, so she put the blanket on the couch and started looking through his video collection. Cliche got off the couch and stumbled back into the bedroom to finish his sleep.

"Wanna watch a movie?" she shouted into the kitchen.

"Anything but The Dresser, I just watched it on Thursday." (He could watch The Dresser every day for the rest of his life, Steve. Then he's as stupid as you are. As sophisticated. As erudite. As subtle. Like I said, stupid. Eventually, you're going to watch that movie. I'll watch it when you die. Come on, let's go.)

On the coffee table there was a plate with bread and chip crumbs, a couple of small, dried pieces of Colby, a small dollop of old, translucent horseradish mayonnaise with a hint of Dijon mustard, two desiccated, half-eaten pickle spears, a stale chip and a used square of paper towel and a glass with what looked like dried beer suds on its side. Roz picked them up and brought them into the kitchen.

Peter was sauteing something in a small pan and the kitchen smelled seductively of browned butter.

"What's that?" Roz asked as she washed the dishes she'd brought in. "I thought you were just making a snack."

"It is a snack."

"What is it?"

"You'll see," Peter said as Roz put the plate and glass in the drainboard. "Now get out of my kitchen and go pick a movie."

"How about Texas Chainsaw Massacre?" She called into the kitchen when she got back to the video collection. (I said no chainsaws, Steve. That was at Lee's. No chainsaws anywhere. How about A Yank in Ermine? That's not really a movie, is it? Sure, 1955, Peter M. Thompson, Noelle Middleton, Harold Lloyd Jr. Directed by Gordon Parry. An American guy finds out he's really an earl. Wow, I'm impressed. Film school.)

"Part one or two?" Peter asked.

"Very good," Roz laughed, then started screaming. "Hey, hey, hey!"

Peter ran out, frightened, holding a spatula dripping with egg goo, and asked what was wrong.

"You have the Ealing comedies!" she shouted. "All four of them! Alec Guinness is God!"

"The Ealing Studios made more than four comedies," Peter said.

"Not with Alec Guinness in them, you pompous idiot. There's only four of those and they're all that count. And you have them all. And you have egg dripping down your arm."

Peter stopped the flow of dripping goo with his other hand.

"Which one do you want to watch, first?" she asked. "How's your head?"

"My head's fine. Jaw still hurts a little. Wait, first? Oh, my God, you're insane. I don't think even I could sit through four movies in one sitting. Let's start with The Lady Killers and see how we feel after that."

"I just saw that a couple of months ago. It's the only one they play on TV. Let's do that second. How about The Man in the White Suit? Bubble bubble pop squirt. I love that."

"My favorite is The Lavender Hill Mob..." he said. The egg goo was escaping past his hand and trickling off his elbow onto his naked belly.

"Okay, that's good," she said, and pulled a tissue from the box Peter had brought out for Jim and she had used for him earlier that night and wiped the goo off his abdomen, leaving a small trail of tissue encrusted yolk behind in the sparse, course hair.

"... so I watch that a lot," Peter continued, ignoring her. "I haven't seen Kind Hearts and Coronets in forever." (Okay, Geoff, did you get all four in? Yes. You sure? You don't want to miss any. Yes, they're all there. You know it's obvious you're just trying to impress everyone, now, don't you? No, I'm not. Yes, you are. Okay, I am. But they're the Ealing/Alec Guinness comedies. Then why don't you own them? I have The Dresser.)

Peter finished cooking and brought in the plates. Omelets with sauteed mushrooms, onions, bell pepper, grated carrots and shallots with melted Camembert, garnished with twisted orange slices, and Texas toast that he had grilled in a pan. He went back in a got the glasses filled with freshly squeezed orange juice with the pips filtered out.

"Wow," she said.

Peter sat on the couch next to her and they covered their nakedness with the blanket. He picked up the remote and turned on the VCR. The Lady Killers started playing.

"I thought you'd just seen this," he said.

"Oh. My. God!" Roz interrupted around a mouthful of omelet, then chased it with a bite of toast. "This is incredible. You just whipped this up?"

He nodded, pleased.

"Just now," she said. "As a snack."

He nodded again.

"At my place you'd be lucky to get corn flakes."

"Thank God we're not at your place," he said with an impish grin, then added, "of course, I like corn flakes."

She was obviously very impressed with his food, which was the one thing that gave Peter the most pleasure. Certainly more than what they had just tried to do in the other room.

"I beat the eggs and a drop of water with a fork in a cold bowl, then pour it into the browned butter and pull it away from the center of the pan with the fork. Don't stir them. They flatten if you stir. They fluff if you pull."

"I've heard that. Oh, you mean the eggs. I usually just eat left over deli food from work," she said and took another sublime bite. "I'm moving in."

"Deli food is good, too," Peter said, beaming. He tasted his omelet and winced a little. "It isn't as tasty with a half-bitten off tongue, though."

"Ooh," Roz said with an empathetic wince. "Sorry about that."

He waved her off, then looked at her with a strange expression on his face. She felt the stare and looked back at him, questioningly. He just shook his head and laughed a little.

"What's funny?"

"Nothing," he said. "It's just I tried so hard to find a friend and when I gave up one kicked me in the face."

He rubbed his jaw. It was swollen into a nice knot and still hurt. And his head buzzed slightly from booze and concussion and lack of sleep.

"It's fate, I guess," Roz said and brushed some toast crumbs from his beard.

"I don't believe in fate," he said.

"I believe you make your own fate," she said around some sauteed vegetables and a long string of cheese that still went all the way to her plate.

"Then it's not fate, is it?" he said and brushed the crumb she had brushed off his beard off her breast, then broke her cheese string.

"Shut up and watch the movie," she said.

They snuggled in and watch the little old lady show Alec Guinness the room she had for let. Cliche, resigned to his fate, unable to sleep with all the coziness going on in the house, came back in to the living room, jumped up onto the couch, curled up on the blanket between them and watched them eat, wondering once again how they could stomach that horrid stuff that guy made.

Somehow, Abby must have managed to fall asleep, because she found herself waking up when sunlight shown into the room. She stayed in bed curled up next to Lee for a while, but got really bored with that. He was still snoring lightly. Probably dreaming about Jimi Hendrix, the dope. The house didn't seem nearly as threatening in the daylight, and Lee seemed to be knocked out for a while, so she decided to get up. She couldn't just leave Lee there to fend for himself if and when he finally woke up, so she started puttering. That got old very quickly, so she decided to make breakfast. (Why don't we say she decided to make porridge and have her make porridge? Why, Steve? Because it's a legitimate English word. Okay, I take it back. Did you know that porridge was really oatmeal? Yes, Steve. So, my question is, why don't they just call it oatmeal? Because they're English. Oh. Hey, I picked up a dead dog today. It peed on me. I don't even want to know.)

She decided to make pancakes. Of course, Lee didn't have any pancake mix. He had flour, but he didn't have eggs and milk so she could make her own pancake mix. Oh, yeah, and he didn't have syrup. Or butter. (How thick can you make a pancake before its just a cake? Steve? Yes? I don't know. I just don't know. I don't know. Really. And I don't care. Just stop interrupting. You're interrupting way too much. You drink way too much coffee, and all you do is interrupt. All the time. Stop it. Go away. Go home. Have some coffee. It's just too much. Art is knowing when to stop. Stop. Now. Geoff? Yes? You okay? Yeah, why? Then come on, let's go. Sheesh. Where's Twain?)

Abby realized Lee would probably sleep long enough for her to run to the store to pick up some provisions. When she returned, Lee was sitting on the edge of the bed, moaning.

The sun was just beginning to come up when the second movie finished. Roz wanted to watch a third movie, but they had been up all night, and had had too much booze before they even started watching movies, and had eaten too much breakfast during the movies, and had expended a lot of energy not having sex, and they couldn't keep their eyes open anymore, so Peter and Roz had just picked up the blanket and stumbled off to snuggle up in bed to sleep.

When Peter's eyes fluttered open in the sun lit room, he glanced at the clock. It was already after one. He could feel Roz snuggled up against his back. It felt good, warm in the chilly room. He carefully turned over and faced her. She didn't wake, but stirred a little, then settled back into place. He looked at her; her round face was nice, her complexion bespoke a bad adolescence which made Peter smile. She looked like a dumpling. Her hair, shoulder-length and slightly wavy, fell across her eyes and was spread out behind her on the pillow. Her eyes opened and she focused, then smiled.

"Morning," she said.

"Afternoon," he said.

She laughed, then snuggled in closer.

"It's chilly," she said, and he nodded. "How's your jaw?"

He rubbed his cheek. The knot was still there, but it didn't hurt as much. She reached out and touched it. He instinctively recoiled a little and she pulled back.

"Sorry," she said.

"No, I'm just being a weinie," he said, and put his arms back around her.

She leaned in and kissed him. He was surprised by his reaction.

"Rosalind," he said.

Downtown, someone got McDonald's™ fries that were hot and fresh. Uptown, a DMV clerk was nice to an ordinary citizen. At the grocery store, a young miscreant with a full cart let an old lady with only one item and a coupon and a check go in front of him at a check out counter. At the cinema, no one talked during the movie. Somewhere out there, a credit card company lowered a customer's interest rate and a telemarketer took someone off their list. There was no line at Space Mountain. A train went through a tunnel, the Eiffel tower still stood, and Peter and Roz did it.

Abby got a glass of water and gave Lee his pills. He'd woken up crabby and didn't get any better when the pills hit. She helped him dress and maneuvered him to the couch, then went in to make breakfast. Actually, by then it was a late lunch, and Lee complained about eating pancakes in the afternoon. Abby threatened to break his other coccyx and he shut up and ate. The stupid little yellow bird chose that moment to break his silence and cheeped one pitiful cheep.

"Shut up, Charlie," Lee said.

"Charlie?"

"I named it Charlie yesterday to see if that made me like it any better."

Abby laughed. "Did it help?"

Lee was too grumpy to even answer. When she cleared the dishes, he stood, stumbled, then painfully followed her into the kitchen. When he got there, he had to lean against the wall, and realized following her into the kitchen had been a very bad idea and that he should have just stayed on the couch. Actually, he should have just stayed on the couch the night before and continued listening to Andrew telling him he had made the right decision to sell the house and spin a stupid tale about hauntings.

"God damn it," he shouted.

"What?" Abby said, startled, concerned.

Lee pointed to the bottom of the door to the cellar, which he had been absent-mindedly staring at because that's the direction his head was pointed while he was leaning against the wall, wishing he had just stayed in bed. Actually, he wished he'd just stayed in Chicago and let his wife have her stupid little affair. At least then he wouldn't be leaning against a wall in this stupid town, in pain from breaking his back while participating in one of the stupid rituals of this stupid town, pointing at the bottom of his door in his stupid house.

"I just fixed that door. Again. For the hundredth time."

The paint at the bottom of the door was covered with deep, fresh scratches, as if some animal had been trying to get it open to go downstairs.

Abby's back tingled, and her head tried to split open from the ears back. She leaned against the counter so she didn't fall and break her own coccyx.

"What did you say?"

"I said I just fixed..."

"I heard you."

"Then why the fuck did you ask me what I said?"

As Abby gathered him up and helped him back to the couch, she told him about the noises she had heard the night before, the noises that sounded like something scratching. In the kitchen. In the dark.

"And don't bite my fucking head off," she added.

"Sorry. I'm in pain. I broke my back."

"You fractured your coccyx, you dope," Abby said, laughing.

"Well, it hurts," Lee said, glumly. "Leave me alone. Okay, so I have mice."

"Those are not mice scratches," Abby said. "If you have mice that big, I'm sure we would have seen more evidence of them than scratches on a door. And I'd never stay over again."

"It's probably that stupid dog," Lee said, even more glumly, and with a touch of sarcasm.

"What stupid dog?"

Lee told her about Andrew's dangerous obsession with his house being haunted, and how the girl who had lived there and used the basement as a bedroom had a dog named Lombard or Gable or something and how she had died in Korea or Viet Nam or somewhere in some war and how the house is haunted but no one had died there. Ever. Which in itself was weird.

"It's probably Gable trying to find his owner," Abby said. "She dies in a foreign country, and the dog dies of grief and haunts the house."

"Come on, Abby, You don't believe that shit, do you?"

Abby started to tell him it was just too weird that she'd heard noises and the scratches that kept coming back and the whole story Andrew told him and everything, when he shouted, "Shit!" again.

"What?" Abby asked, again concerned, but wary this time.

"I'm supposed to be at the diner. Twain'll kill me. What time is it?"

Abby patted him on the knee and called the diner. Twain told her that he'd called Matt in first thing in the morning, and that he would have called to make sure Lee was okay, but didn't want to wake him. He also asked if he'd broken his back, or just fractured his coccyx. (Come on, Geoff, how the hell would Twain figure that out? I don't know. You just like typing coccyx, don't you? No. Okay, yes. Okay, you can type it once more.) Coccyx. (Happy? Yes. Thanks. You're welcome.)

Then Lee sat forward and was about to shout "Shit" again, but the movement hurt too much and he just winced loudly.

"Now what?" Abby asked, not even a little willing to be concerned. Even with the wince going on over there on Lee's face.

"What about the play?"

"That again," Abby said. "You don't have rehearsal until Monday. If you're still out of commission, they'll have to cope."

"What do you mean, cope? I'm in the cast! They need me!"

"They need you?"

"The show must go on!"

"And a penny saved is a penny earned," Abby said, hoping against all odds that Lee wasn't really serious.

"I'm serious, Abby," Lee said seriously.

"Lee," Abby said, "it's a little part in a community theatre production of a Neil Simon play in fucking River Bend. They can get someone else to do it. Get over yourself."

"Get over myself?" Lee shouted. "I have a hundred and three lines!"

Abby had never seen Lee's cheeks puff out like that and it made her laugh, which made Lee's cheeks puff even more.

"Yes, darling," she said through the giggles. "Get over yourself. This isn't Broadway. And even if it were, they'd still have to cope if you'd broken your back."

"I didn't break my back," Lee said. "You're just jealous."

That made Abby really laugh.

"Jealous? Of what? That you have a hundred and three lines in a play that's been done a million times before?"

"You're jealous because you can't act and I can."

Now, that made her mad. But she realized this was coming from a man who was in pain, so she decided not to let him have it right then. As soon as his back got better, though, she was going to break both his legs.

"Lee," she said with as much control as a part Jamaican, Norwegian, Irish, Maltese, Chippewa, Italian, Persian, French, Arab and German woman could muster, "I have absolutely zero interest in being in a stupid play. Zero."

"Oh, so now it's a stupid play?" Lee said. His cheeks were still puffing, but now Abby found it more annoying than funny.

"No, the play isn't stupid, Lee," she said, giving up any pretense of control. "You are."

"Okay, if I'm being stupid, just leave me alone." Shouting felt good, even if it did make his backside throb. "Go away."

"I will, you know."

"Good!" He winced again, but tried to hide it from her. "I can take care of my self."

"Yeah, you're doing a really good job of it."

"I wouldn't even need any help if you hadn't dragged me to that fucking hill."

"Okay, fine," Abby said as she stood and got her coat and purse. "It's my fault."

She put on the coat and flung the front door open.

"Asshole," she said, and slammed the door behind herself.

Charlie didn't cheep, but looked like he might be smiling. Lee sat fuming, then realized he was in a lot of pain, which made him burn. And he didn't know where the pills were, which made him want to explode. He was seething at Abby, and he was bristling at Andrew, and he was simmering at Beverly and the Jerk and he was smoldering at the stupid bird and he was churning at the ghost dog and he was inflamed at himself. He was just angry. And now he had to go pee. While he was trying to decide how to stand without causing more pain, he realized he had to sneeze. Oh, no. He had to sneeze.

"Abby!"