It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. (That's been used. But it's good. But it's been used.) It was a dark and stormy night. (It's afternoon, Steve.) Old Paint... (Steve!) The lights flickered on and the first thing Lee saw was the far wall, which was chipped and old and full of flaking, peeling paint and water stains. He was amazed at just how much paint could peel from a wall and in just how many places it could do it all at once. Paint should stick, he thought. It's what it's supposed to do. Not peel. The next thing he saw were the light fixtures hanging through the framework of what should have been the false ceiling, some held up only by their electrical cords, the support chain drooping down around the cords like old lady support hose gone bad. And water was dripping in a steady rhythm onto the stage area.

"Oh, no," Lee said, even more quietly. "Why wasn't the water dripping yesterday?"

Peter looked up at the ceiling and studied the expanding wet spot that was spreading out like a huge radiation formed blob creature seeping out of the ground in an old horror movie. A drip of water came dangerously close to one of the light fixtures dangling from its cord. Lee very quickly turned the lights off.

"Um," Peter said, almost as quietly as Lee. "The furnace wasn't on, yesterday. I think it might be the snow melting from the roof. Because of the furnace."

"Oh," Lee said, "fuck."

He took a step into the room and the heel of one shoe made contact with a nice patch of furnace-melted snow. His foot shot forward gracelessly and his other leg crumbled.

"Fuck!" he shouted as his knee made painful contact with the damp floor. "Fuck, fuck, fuck! Fuck!"

He picked himself up and brushed vehemently but ineffectively at the filthy water stain at his now throbbing knee.

"Fuck."

Peter tried to be invisible until Lee could become rational again.

"Fuck," Lee said, just to bring the point home.

Something glinting caught his eye at that precise moment. Unable to discern what it was, he limped over to investigate. In the corner, catching the light from the door, was an old, dusty cuss jar.

"Shit," he said and picked it up.

There were three dusty quarters in it. One of them was Canadian. He threw it outside, just as Officer Bacon walked by. It landed at the officer's feet with a thunk and a couple of clanks. He picked it up and brought it in. Oh, shit, Lee thought.

"Littering?" Officer Bacon asked.

"It fell," Lee said, anticipating another trip to the hoosgow complete with photo in the police log in the Bee.

"I thought it must be that," Officer Bacon said, then looked around the room. "I've always thought this place could be a nice theater if somebody put the right oomph into it. I'm glad you two are trying to make a go of it. What's your first play?"

Peter just looked at Lee.

"Where can I get tickets? How much are they? Can I get season tickets?"

Lee looked at Peter. Peter shook his head back at Lee.

"What kind of food are you going to serve? I acted a little before the academy. Did the Artful Dodger. 'Consider yourself at home.'"

Lee and Peter looked at each other.

Officer Bacon walked over to put the jar back exactly where it had been and left with a jaunty tip of his hat. Lee looked at the cuss jar sitting there on the floor in the corner and wondered if every cuss jar in town was on some map somewhere.

"You know," Peter said, "he actually does have a lovely voice."

"Quite," said Lee and they both did the box step.

It had only been a week since Peter quit, but to Stella, it seemed like more than a year. She was beginning to approach her new "sans Peter" life at the Willow Lane Theater with numb determination. Mornings were spent trying to figure out what needed to be done, and afternoons were spent not doing those things very well. As she struggled with a file drawer that wouldn't open or close, the office door opened.

"What?" she demanded before she looked around to see Hal Smith, Reginald Vanderding, Adrienne Gomez and a young, professional looking woman. Phil Gomez, it seemed, was out somewhere being prominent.

"Oh," she said, recovering somewhat in an attempt to appear to the members of the board that she was in complete control and not the least bit numb. She figured that she didn't have to try too hard, however. It wasn't even a quorum. "Good afternoon, Mr. Smith. Reginald. Hello, Adrienne. What can I do for you all?"

Mr. Smith ushered the young, very young, very professional looking woman into the room and Stella smiled tentatively at her.

"Stella. This," Mr. Smith said, very officiously, "is Titania. Titania, Stella Swann."

"Oh," Stella said. "Hi. Titania. Named after Midsummer Night's Dream?"

Stella noticed with some dismay that Titania's purse perfectly matched her shoes and coat, which were all a soft, rich chocolate color. She wondered who dressed her.

"No, actually," Titania said with a small laugh. "Believe it or not, they named me after Uranus's moon."

Titania smiled. A little less tentatively than Stella.

"Oh," Stella said as if she had known about the moon all along. "Of course. Was the moon named after Midsummer Night's Dream? Do you think?"

Titania casually unbuttoned her coat and Stella caught the subtlest wisp of her cologne as it danced to life with the movement. It was soft and smooth and very high-end. For a brief moment, Stella was intrigued, compelled. She almost considered asking what it was and where Titania had gotten it.

"They all were, actually," Titania said. "Well, most. All of the early ones. After something Shakespearian, even if it wasn't exactly Midsummer Night's Dream. I was joking, though. I thought you'd catch on."

Stella forgot about the cologne.

"Titania is applying for Peter's job," Reginald jumped in. "She's fresh out of the Theater Management program at State and has very nice credentials."

"Oh," Stella said, looking at Titania's credentials disapprovingly. "How nice. What's your last name, Titania?"

"Moon," Titania said prettily.

"And we thought it would be nice if you showed her around the old Willow Lane so she has an idea of what she would be getting into," Adrienne said, ignoring the frost that was forming around the edges of Stella's face and neck. "She has the best resume we've gotten so far. Actually, she has the only resume we've gotten so far that has any theater experience on it. Well, there was that Steve guy who played President Nixon's press secretary in fourth grade. But he's in prison, now."

Several things rushed through Stella's mind at that moment, none of which would have been politic to voice in the presence of any single member of the board of directors, even less so in front of more than one of them gathered together where they could compare notes afterwards. Several of the things rushing through her mind had to do with not working in the same country as this Titania person even if her life were to require it. Some of them pertained to Titania Moon spontaneously bursting into flame and how much Stella would pay to watch. A few scraggly ones entailed Ms. Moon's credentials. A small, insignificant one considered the cologne. None of them, however, involved agreeing to escort Miss Titania Theater Management through her theater.

"Of course," she said. "Come along. Titania."

Stella swept out of the room without waiting to see if Titania was following. She was slightly disappointed to discover that she was.

"So," Stella said, "do you have any real experience?"

"Oh, I've slept with hundreds of men." (Steve!) "And two women." (Steven John Mancini!)

"Grrrr," growled Stella as she wiggled her hips.

"Well, yes, I guess so," Titania said as Stella opened the main door to the auditorium. "When I was in high school, I started my own theater."

The auditorium was dark, but Stella had no intention of turning on any lights. The steps down toward the stage weren't too uneven or strangely placed and she knew her way around it. It would be entirely the fault of the person to whom it happened if any person happened to trip on any of them or bump into one of the seats at the end of one of the uneven rows.

"That's sweet," Stella said as she made her way toward the stage. Titania, again, was right behind her. "Sort of a 'I have a barn... I have some costumes' sort of thing?"

"Oh, well, sort of. It was in an old barn. Sort of like this one, but we had better management."

The ice moved to the tip of Stella's nose and all the way down her spine.

"And so ends our tour, Tiffany," she said and turned back toward the office.

The three members of the board were just getting settled into the office when Stella opened the door. Adrienne looked up from Stella's desk surprised but expectant. Until she saw the look on Stella's face. And then she saw the look on Titania's.

"So," She said, hoping she was wildly misinterpreting the looks. And the shortness of the tour. And the frosty chill in the air. And the biblical concordance she had been reading the evening before. "How was the tour?"

"Enlightening," Titania said with a smile.

(When they leave the theater, they should see a disheveled man smoking a pipe and wearing a beret standing on the corner selling tickets to the horse races at the River Bend Downs. This should be good. Why? Because it's film noir. But this is theater. Okay, theater noir. Actually, it's not even theater, it's satirical prose fiction in which there are theaters. Okay, satirical prose fiction noir would just be stupid. Yes. Yes, it would.)

Lee and Peter stood in the darkened room listening to the water dripping. Each drop that hit the floor with its tiny sploosh sounded exactly like a dollar bill taking flight from a dead standstill in their joint business account. Lee breathed in sharply, surprised to discover that he hadn't been breathing for some time. When he breathed in a second time he was even more surprised that it sounded halting, almost like stifled sobs.

"Um... ," Peter said, hearing the halting breath, "we should probably... um... do... something. We could go to the adult theater and sniff the seats."

(Steve? Uh huh? Are you through? It's a call back. From what? Yesterday. You need help. Hey, I didn't just buy a disintegrating theater. No, you're just thirteen. What's that? A call back.)

"I did that yesterday," Lee said. "But half of them smell like me."

"We could go next door and regroup," Peter said when Steve was finally through. "It's not that bad. Really. I've seen worse."

"Fuck," Lee said. "No, we should just get started. We'll have to get a ladder to go put something on the hole and call the landlord to get the roof fixed. Maybe if we just shovel the snow off the roof it won't drip so dangerously. And while we're waiting for the roof to get fixed we might as well start scraping the paint off the walls. Or what's left of it. That's still on the walls. And not flaking off onto the floor."

"I like it when you take charge," Peter said. "Can we turn the lights back on?"

"Not until we shovel the roof."

After going home to shower the sweat and paint flecks off, Lee went to Twain's. He was already putting on his apron when Twain came into the kitchen and looked at him with his head cocked at an odd angle.

"What are you doing here?" Twain asked.

"Um... ," Lee said. "Working."

"Well, you shouldn't be. You should be getting your place open."

Lee stood with is hands behind his back, the apron ties only half looped. He wasn't sure what to do, whether to finish tying the apron or take it off. He wasn't used to stopping and reversing mid-action and it paralyzed him. He probably should be used to it because it happened all the time in River Bend. Then his mind started getting involved, which was rarely a good thing. Was he being fired? He tried to think what being fired from a dishwasher job should feel like and his body refused to tell him. Then he tried to remember if he had actually told Twain they'd signed the lease. It had only been four days ago, after all. It could have slipped his mind. Of course, Peter had been in there almost constantly talking about it since then, so Twain had probably picked up a thing or two. Well, it was only fair that he be fired. After all, Peter had been fired from the Willow Lane when they thought he had been opening his own theater. Well, he quit really, the idiot. Which had only been a week ago. My God, things moved fast in River Bend, Lee thought. It seems like it's been over a year since Peter quit the Willow Lane. Way over a year.

Twain handed him a small box.

"What's that?" Lee asked.

Twain gave him an open it and see, you idiot look. Lee shook it first, then, after seeing Twain's next look, opened it. It was a poached egg-form thing.

"Oh," Lee said.

"You need one of those."

"Actually," Lee said without thinking, "there's already one on the counter in the kitchen."

Twain nodded and took the thing back. He thought for a moment, then left. Lee realized that he wasn't being fired, actually, but he was being let go so he finally moved his hands and untied the apron. As he was taking it off, Twain came back in with a large, old, dusty box and handed it to Lee. It was heavy, so Lee set it down on the counter. He wiped some the dust off and opened it. Inside were wine goblets. Forty-eight of them. He pulled one out. Elegantly etched on the side was the word "Rennaisance". Lee looked at Twain with his head cocked.

"I knew the last owner," Twain said.

Lee was going to tell him that Renaissance had been misspelled, but stopped himself. It was a thoughtful gift. On odd one, but a thoughtful one. An odd, second hand one, but thoughtful.

"Thank you," he said.

Twain nodded.

"I want to come to opening night," he said. "What play are you putting on?"

"We don't know, yet," Lee said, sort of apprehensively.

Twain looked at him with a look that could only be described as puzzled. Or, perhaps, bewildered. Okay, it could be described a lot of ways.

"Don't you know you have to open with a play?" he said, perplexed.

Lee nodded. So did Twain. Then he started doing the dishes, which made Lee feel very weird. He stood there for a moment wondering what to do. Then he picked up the box and left.

"I thought you had to work," Peter said when Lee came into the Renaissance.

They had swept the snow off the roof, so it wasn't leaking and the lights were back on. Sweeping it had been an odd adventure with lots of shouting and fear, but they had managed it, somehow.

"Twain let me go." Lee said as he set the box down and took off his coat.

"Oh, good," Peter said. He stopped scraping long enough to wipe his forehead and take a swig of Diet Mr. Pibb®. "Do you have to go back and help him close?"

"No, he let me go. For good."

Lee knew the furnace was on, but the air was still bitter cold. It hadn't seemed that way in the afternoon, but then in the afternoon he had been exerting a lot of energy shoveling snow from a roof and scraping paint from a wall.

"Oh," Peter said, shocked. There was a weird patch of pink on his forehead where he had wiped the dust away. After a moment, Lee realized it was simply Peter's skin. He'd never noticed how pink Peter's skin was. "What did you do?"

"I left," Lee said, and found a scraper.

He never really thought about anyone's skin color, really, except Edgar Winter's, and of course Johnny Winter's. And Jonathan Winter's. Besides them, he never noticed skin color, so it wasn't really unusual that he had never noticed how pink Peter's was. And it probably was only pink in contrast to the paint dust surrounding it, anyway. He'd have to check sometime when Peter wasn't covered with paint dust.

"No, what did you do to make him mad?" Peter sat down on a box. "I'm tired."

"I didn't make him mad," Lee said, trying to remember if he knew what Abby's skin looked like. "I'm not surprised you're tired, I am and you've been working longer then me."

Peter wiped more of the dust from his face. The rest was still pink.

"Then why did he fire you?" Peter said.

"He didn't fire me, he let me go."

Lee sat down on an upside down plastic bucket. He really was tired.

"So why did he let you go?" Peter said, then sighed and hefted himself up dramatically.

"Because we're opening up our own restaurant."

Lee leaned back and looked at the wall and was very disappointed to see how little had been scraped so far.

"Uh oh," Peter said. "He was upset, huh? I didn't think of that."

"No, he was happy for me," Lee said as he stood back up. "He gave me those."

Lee opened the box and pulled out one of the wine goblets.

"Wow," Peter said. He put his scraper down, wiped a hand clean on his overalls and took the goblet. "We just signed the lease on Friday, how did he get these made so quickly?"

"He said he knew the previous owner," Lee said and started scraping.

"So, what, he bought them from him?" Peter said, examining the thing very closely. "Or did he buy them for him?"

"I don't know," Lee said. And as far as he was concerned, he didn't much care.

"You didn't ask him?"

Peter gently flicked the edge of the goblet and it rang with a very high, very clear note that lingered in the chilly room.

"It's Twain!" Lee said, exasperated. He wished Peter would just put the infernal thing back in the box and stop being so pink.

"They're really beautiful."

"Yeah, but we can't use them," Lee said, turning toward Peter, wondering why he hadn't noticed, yet.

"Why not?" Peter was dismayed.

"Because he spelled Renaissance wrong," Lee said, peeved. He just wanted to be scraping paint and not talking about Twain or wine gobblets.

"But they're crystal," Peter said, his eyes wide, looking at the wall through the goblet. It made the flecks of peeled paint very pretty.

"Really?"

Peter nodded.

"But it's spelled wrong," Lee said. (Hey, wouldn't spell check catch that? Not on glass. It's cristal. You're special. I take supplements. As well you should.) "We'll talk about it later. Let's just get back to work."

Peter took another moment to admire the goblet, then gently put it back and picked up his scraper. As they worked, Peter fantasized about box office records that would put the Willow Lane to shame. Lee tried not to think about how much money they were already spending. He was really beginning to enjoy himself, however. They talked about what play they would do and what food they would serve and what sort of reviews they would get. The more they talked, the more energized they both became and the more the conversation expanded out to fantasies of Broadway, television and getting tony awards like a Tony award or some Paris© culinary honor. They scraped until after nine, when both of them suddenly ran out of steam and agreed that it had been quite enough for one day.

Abby sat on the couch next to the freshly showered Lee. When he looked at her sweatshirt, she sat back so he could see the whole picture. It was of a man wearing a jacket that had a piece of toast on it. The legend under the man said "It's my family crust." Lee shook his head and smiled. Charlie didn't seem to care. He just sat miserably in his cage, refusing to sing. I'm no stool pigeon, he thought. Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk.

"You look really tired," Abby said, and he nodded. "I could go home."

"No, I'm glad you're here," Lee said, gladly.

Abby smiled, picked up the remote and turned the music up. It was Boots Randolph. Lee looked at her and tried to remember if he had ever noticed the dark golden color of her skin. It was really beautiful, and he felt a little ashamed that he wasn't sure if he'd ever noticed until that night.

"Isn't this music a little jangly for you right now?" Abby asked.

Lee shrugged.

"I like Yakety Sax," he said, then began telling her about his day; about how he'd worked lunch while Peter got the utilities on, and that, when he got back for dinner, Twain had let him go.

"Oh, my," Abby said. "He was really upset, huh?"

Exasperated, Lee explained that he hadn't been fired, just let go. He told her about the goblets to prove it, then talked about the miserable state of the Renaissance once they'd turned on the lights. And about the hole in the ceiling.

"I called the landlord, but he was out, so I left a message with his assistant," He said. "He sounded a little... meek. I hope he gives him the message."

Then he asked her to turn down the music a little because it was too jangly. She did, hit him on the shoulder with the remote, then told him about her day, which wasn't nearly as interesting as his had been. The cushion next to Abby sank a little. Lee thought it must be Gable getting comfortable. At least the spooky thing wasn't gnawing on the door to the basement anymore. Lee looked at Abby's face again and smiled.

"Oh," he said. "Peter had a date last night."

Abby sat up and looked at him, surprised, and asked what the guy's name was. She looked really interested, which sort of puzzled Lee.

"Fred, I think," he said. "Fred Ogg."

"So... ," Abby prompted. "How did they meet?"

"In college, I think," Lee answered simply, not realizing that when someone is prompting you for information, you'd better have some handy.

"Did they do it?"

"I don't know," Lee said with a shudder, and got up to wash his hands. He didn't even want to think about that. Not at all. He thought about fireworks on New Years Eve instead. His pants tented. Then he thought about Peter and Fred and broke camp.

"Are they going out again?" Abby called down the hallway.

"I don't know." Lee wished she would change the subject. To anything else. It had already been far too traumatic. Maybe she could talk about something socially acceptable like feminine hygiene. He considered just staying in the bathroom, but knew that wouldn't dissuade Abby even a little bit.

"Aren't you curious?" Abby asked as he came back into the living room just to prove his point.

"I guess," Lee said as he slumped back into the couch, resigned for the moment, unsure how he could turn the conversation.

"So why didn't you ask?"

"I don't know," he said simply.

"Guys."

"I don't know," he said defensively. He wondered what a conversation between two women must be like and shuddered again. Now would be a good time to bring up salve™. "I didn't think of it."

"Double guys," Abby said and snuggled closer to him. Charlie turned his back on them, hoping they would remember to cover his cage before they got any further.

"I don't think about those kind of things," Lee said and put his arm around her.

"What do you think about?"

"Andy Warhol."

"Guys," she said, laughing, and turned up Boots Randolph.

When Peter and Lee opened the place up the next morning, there was a manilla envelope that had been shoved under the door. Peter picked it up and opened it, then looked at Lee with a puzzled expression. He showed it to Lee. It was an actor's picture. He turned it over with an odd laugh. There was a resume on the back. Lee took it from him.

"He was in The Odd Couple," Lee said with a scowl. "I was pretty sure he hated me."

"And yet," Peter said, "he wants in. Of course, he didn't come by and hand it to us. That would be too in, I guess."

"I hate actors," Lee said and set the picture down on an overturned plastic bucket and picked up his scraper. He looked around the room, which was, by now, about three quarters scraped. He made a conscious effort not to look up because that would remind him of all the false ceiling bits that would need to be purchased and installed. He had never bought or installed a false ceiling and the thought of it gave him the vapors. "Hey, do you think I could play Cool Hand Luke?"

"Um... ," Peter said graciously, trying to remember where he had set his scraper down last night. "That's a movie."

"I know," Lee said defensively. "But do you think I could play Luke?"

"Sure," Peter said, suppressing a grin, looking under the manila folder. It wasn't there. "If we do the movie."

"No, I mean in the play."

"I don't think it was a play," Peter said with a straight face. (Peter never had a straight face in his life.) Peter said with a bent face. (Now, that's just queer.)

"Well, what if it was a play, could I do it?" Lee asked, not willing to give it up.

"Lee, even if it were a play, it has about a ton of people in it, all men except a young women in a wet blouse and an old woman in the back of a pickup truck, and it takes place in a prison, and around a prison, and on a road near a prison and we have a very small stage and almost no tech budget. Actually, almost no budget at all. We need a play with two or three people in it. With one set. That we can suggest with a few small set pieces. Like maybe... "

"Ben Hur?" Lee said.

"... Endgame," Peter finished. He found the scraper under the plastic bucket that the manila folder was on and wondered idly how it had gotten there. "Ben Hur. Sheesh."

"How about Tomato Stand?"

"What's that?"

"That's a shameless plug by the writers because they wrote a stupid, boring screenplay about boring people in a boring town and called it Tomato Stand."

(Hey! Yeah, hey!)

"Okay," Lee said. "What's Endgame?"

"Beckett. Two guys in garbage cans," Peter said, gesturing with his scraper. "Clov and Hamm. You could play Hamm. But we probably don't want to do a play that takes place in garbage cans in a dinner theater. At least for our first one. And do you think you should have a major part in our first play?"

Lee looked very hurt.

"I mean," Peter said, wildly looking for a way to soften the blow, "there's a lot of work to do between now and then and we have to build the place from the ground up and we don't have a lot of time and if you have the lead in a play, at least in the first play, you won't have any time to do any of the stuff that needs to be done and it won't get done and we won't be able to open at all."

Lee stared at him, still hurt.

"And we need to get volunteers," Peter continued, even though Lee looked sort of cute when he looked hurt, "to do tech and answer the phones, plus it's our very first play in our dinner theater and we don't know what to expect and we have to have wait staff and bussers and kitchen help. And stuff."

"I didn't just spend forty thousand dollars to be a busboy!" Lee said, empathically. "I just quit being a busboy at Twain's."

"You didn't quit, you got fired," Peter shot back. Emphatically.

"He didn't fire me, he let me go!"

"Okay. I'm sorry," Peter said, genuinely sorry, but more that he'd brought the whole subject up than that he'd hurt Lee's feelings. "Look, let's get the place ready and figure out what play we're doing and we can think about what part you'll play after that, okay?"

Lee looked unsure, like he was about to start mumbling under his breath about forty thousand dollars and Twain's and washing dishes and wanting to play Luke.

"Scrape," he said.

Peter scraped.

On Wednesday, Lee went to City Hall to get their business license while Peter ordered phone service. The lady at River Bend Bell told him the lines wouldn't be on until Monday what with them being a business and all and it being winter and cold and everything. She was tall and thin and dark and very officious, but smelled slightly of citrus. Which made Peter hungry. So he ate her. (Okay, Steve, that's just lame. It is just lame. Then why did you say it? I'm not quite sure. Does that bother you? I'm kind of used to it. Carry on, then.) Her nameplate said "Pam". And eggs. (Now that bothers me.)

"Well, okay, I guess," Peter said. "What time will you be there on Monday?"

He expected the usual "sometime between nine and five-thirty."

"Ten-forty," Pam said.

"Ten-forty?"

Pam nodded as she stapled his check to a small piece of paper that she had just meticulously filled in.

"Exactly ten-forty?"

"Of course," she said as she paper clipped the form and check to the larger piece of paper that Peter had filled out, then put that in a slot with other, similarly paper clipped and stapled forms and checks. "Will you be there at ten-forty on Monday?"

"Yes, I'll be there at ten-forty on Monday. Ten-forty exactly?"

"Yes, ten-forty exactly," she said sort of huffily. "We are the phone company and everything. After all."

Peter left a little disoriented, so he stopped by the grocery store on the way back to the Renaissance to pick up an orange, a dozen eggs and some Pam. As long as he was there, he decided to stop by the deli counter to say hi to Roz.

"What's wrong?" he asked when he saw her. She was really pale, even for Roz. Kind of ecru, which wasn't a good color for her.

"I don't know," she said. "I was fine when I came in. Just got dizzy all of a sudden."

"There's a lot of flu going around," Peter said, concerned. "Did you get your flu shot?"

She shook her head.

"Me neither," Peter said. "I never do, actually, but I don't get sick much. When I do, I go all the way, though. I can make you a batch of chicken soup."

"Really?"

Peter shrugged. As far as he was concerned, making chicken soup was what he did. Piece of cake. Easy as pie. Can of corn. Roz thought about how much was involved in making home made chicken soup. She'd done it once, and decided canned was just fine from that moment on.

"No, thanks," she said. "That's sweet. I'll be fine. It's probably just something I ate, anyway. Imagine, I work the deli counter and I get food poisoning. Poetic justice, I guess.

"What did you eat?"

"A stoat. Need any cold cuts?"

Peter laughed and assured her all he was there for was an orange and some Pam. So he bought some kielbasa and a baguette. (How much does a stoat weigh? On the hoof or dressed? You do come from rural Michigan, don't you? They weigh about a half a pound. You could probably eat them whole, bones and all. I bet a boneless hamster would be pretty good. Batter dipped and deep fried. Mmmmm. Steve, you're drooling on my mullet.)

On the way back to the Renaissance, Lee stopped by his place to phone Bertram Cage again about fixing the hole in the roof. He'd left several messages and was starting to get a little frustrated.

"Bertram Cage," Bertram Cage said.

Lee was flummoxed at actually getting the guy and almost didn't know what to say. He stammered and stumbled for a moment or two, then finally said who he was and what he wanted.

"Yes, Lee," Mr. Cage said. "I got your messages. Sorry it took so long to get back to you. Yeah. You're responsible for any repairs to the building. I can recommend a good roofer, though."

"I... ," Lee said. "What? We're respons... "

"It's right there in the lease," Bert said casually. "How's it going over there? Getting it all cleaned up?"

"Yes, we... ," Lee said, sort of stupidly. "What do you mean it's in the lease? I read the lease. It didn't say we were responsible for the repairs."

"Well, it says so in my copy, and I'm pretty sure we have the same thing," Mr. Cage said. "Well, I gotta run, now. Nice talking to you, Lee."

Lee was about to shout "What? Wait! Where in the lease? How can that be legal! What are you talking about? Who shot J.R.? Fuck!" but Mr. Cage had already hung up the phone, so all he was able to shout was "Wha... ?"

He fumed all the way back to the Renaissance, stomped in, stormed around looking for Peter, who wasn't back from the grocery store, yet, and went to the cupboard in the kitchen where they had put the folder with the important papers until they could get a file cabinet. It wasn't there, so he tore around the front room looking for it, then frantically ran around the kitchen. Finally, Peter came in, eating an orange section.

"Where's the fucking lease?" Lee demanded.

"Huh?"

"The lease! Bert Cage says we're responsible for any repairs and says it's all in the lease. Where's the lease?"

There were actually little specs of spit in the corners of Lee's mouth, which fascinated Peter. He'd never actually seen any real person do that. He'd never known what people meant when they said someone had worked themselves into a lather, and here, right in front of him was someone who was doing just that.

"I took it home. I thought it would be safer," Peter said, very calmly and reasonably. "Wait, we're responsible to fix the leak? In the roof? Really?"

"No! I mean yes. I mean I don't know. That's what he said. That's why I want to see the lease."

Lee wasn't making a lot of sense, and Peter didn't want to start lathering, so he offered to go home and get the lease so they could figure it out.

"I'll come with you," Lee said.

Under normal circumstances, Peter would have reminded Lee that there was a lot to be done and it wouldn't take two people to go get a lease, but Lee's face didn't look normal.

"Have you had anything to eat today?" he asked instead.

"A couple of crackers," Lee said offhandedly. "Right before I called Bertram."

"You need some food," Peter said. "Go get some lunch. I'll keep working around here." He handed him his keys. "You can stop by my place on your way back. The folder is in the front of the top drawer of my filing cabinet."

Lee sighed and said that it was a good idea, that it shouldn't really take two people and that one of them should stay and get stuff done. Peter nodded in agreement. Lee took a few steps toward the door, then stopped.

"Can I bring you back anything?"

"No," Peter said. "I had a Pam."

Lee was about to ask him what he meant by that, but the joke had already been rendered inert from overuse so he asked where the filing cabinet was instead.

"In my bedroom closet," Peter said.

Lee was all the way in his car before it hit him that he would have to go into Peter's bedroom unescorted. He pulled out a .45 caliber gun and blew his head off.

The End

(Steve, Lee is too neat. He'd take sleeping pills or something. Hanging? Possibly.)

Lee shuddered, put the SUV in gear and pulled out.

He stood on Peter's front stoop for a few minutes debating whether to go through with actually going in. He knew he had to, of course, eventually. There was a lease to go over. He put the key in the door and stood there for a moment, breathed in, held the breath and turned the key. The living room was actually fairly neat. Neat for Peter's living room in any case, which was very odd considering Peter had spent so much of the last several days working at the Renaissance. Maybe Peter was one of those guys Lee had heard about who are more able to do stuff around their houses when they are really busy in their lives. Okay, he'd never heard of guys like that, but maybe Peter was one of them. He went down the hall to the bedroom. The door was open. Cliche was on the bed, nestled in among the piled blankets, sheets and clothing. There were books and plates and two pots on the bed that he could see. He didn't want to imagine what was there that he couldn't see. A moment later the strange odor of an old hamper filled with socks mixed with the heavy scent of winter bedding sidled up to his nose and he almost lost his nerve.

He breathed as shallowly as he could, carefully navigated his way around the detritus on the floor and peered into the closet. (Hey, Geoff, what's this stuff in your refrigerator? Which stuff? On the second shelf. From the top or bottom? Bottom. What color is it? I don't know, sort of greenish gray. Salsa. Got any chips? On the first shelf. From the top or the bottom? Focus Steve.) The Charles Chip cans were back, stacked and duct taped shut. Right beside them was a tawny colored, dented two drawer filing cabinet. He hadn't noticed that when they had pulled the coins out. Perhaps Peter had gotten it recently, although Lee couldn't imagine when. He opened the top drawer. It was jammed full of folders that were jammed full of untidy papers. The top edges of most of the paper was frayed and torn. The very front folder was the one he was looking for. Before he pulled it out, his curiosity got the better of him and he flicked one of the Charles Chip cans. It thunked. He tried to lift it. It was very heavy and something inside it sloshed. He got the file folder and left the bedroom very fast.

He sat on Peter's couch and read through the lease. Again, nothing in it looked like they were responsible for the repairs. In fact, it seemed to say just the opposite. He sat back for a moment to try to figure it out. Finally, he looked around for Peter's phone. He found the cord and followed it under a pile of newspapers. The phone wasn't there, though; the cord snaked out behind the pile and under the couch cushion that he was sitting on. Lee stood and pried the cushion up. Under it was a flattened Velveeta™ box. Under that was a brick. Under that was a fly on a frog on a bump on a log in a hole at the bottom of the seat. (Is this going anywhere, Steve? Does it have to? No, I guess not. Then no.) Under that was the phone.

After putting the box, brick, fly, frog, log and cushion back, Lee called Andrew and started to give him some background so he could ask him to explain the lease.

"You took the Renaissance?" Andrew interrupted before Lee could get very far. "From Bertram Cage?"

"Yeah," Lee said, eyeing the little white plastic wishbone and some tweezers with about three inches of wire dangling from its end that sat on the coffee table.

"Well," Andrew said. "Um... Okay. Congratulations."

"Thanks. Anyway," Lee said, trying to get back on track. He picked up the tweezers and tried to pick up the wishbone with them. Something buzzed and he flung the tweezers away. "There's this thing I don't understand about the lease."

There was a long pause. The buzzing sounded again and Lee looked up to see Cliche snickering in the corner. Finally, Andrew told Lee to bring it over and he'd take a look at it.

"How the hell could you sign this without bringing it to me first?" Andrew said after a cursory glance at the document.

Lee shrunk into his chair a little and shrugged. The den that Andrew used as his office was chilly, and Lee wondered why he didn't heat it more. Maybe his practice hadn't been very lucrative before he'd retired.

"All the numbers added up," he said meekly. "It looked okay to me so... I... Um... So, does it say I'm responsible? We? Are responsible? For repairs?"

"Well," Andrew said, shaking his head and looking at the document again, "it doesn't say you're responsible, but it clearly states that he's not."

"Where does it say that?"

Andrew read a passage which was full of parties of various parts and therefors and lessors and lessees and not to exceeds and hold harmless and indemnifies and was packed with strange double negatives, but sounded to Lee's un-lawerly ears to mean that the landlord was, indeed, responsible for the major repairs on the building, and he said so.

"You know numbers," Andrew said. "Go back and calculate all the double negatives in that sentence."

"That was only one sentence?" Lee asked incredulously. Anyone who could have understood that sentence in one take must have done okay. So why was the room so cold?

Andrew nodded. Lee realized that thinking of it in accounting terms might make it make sense and asked Andrew to read it again. Halfway through, his brain quit, so he shook his head and reached out for the document so he could read it himself. He shivered, a movement that had nothing to do with the chill in the room. He tried to tally all the without whiches and notwithstandings and keep very close track of the direction that the sentence pointed from phrase to phrase and was sure, at the end, that it pointed to the Lessor. Which he was sure was Cage.

"Yes," Andrew said. "It does point to him by the end. By holding him harmless and completely indemnifying him from any responsibility for repairs."

Lee read it again. He could almost see the thread, now.

"Is that legal?"

"Yup. You signed it. You should have brought it to me first."

"You said that," Lee said sulkily. "And it's a little late for that now, isn't it?"

"Yup. Sure is."

"Why is your house so cold?" Lee asked because it was the only thing he could think of to say.

"I like it cold. Root beer?"

Lee wasn't at all happy about it, but couldn't think of anything that could be done at the moment. Suddenly, in self defense his mind presented him with a non-sequitur.

"Hey, would you consider directing something at our theater?" He asked.

He was surprised to discover that thinking about having his own theater for which he could ask someone to direct made his mood completely turn around. His mind beamed happily, a job well done.

Andrew smiled pleasantly.

"No," he said, "I'm an actor. Never been interested much in directing. I tried it a couple of times, of course, but you have to focus on too much. I like the simplicity of acting. Thanks for asking, though. Really."

"Okay," Lee said. "How about acting in something."

Andrew's smile didn't change.

"I'm a Willow Lane man, Lee," he said. "I'll come see whatever you put on, though."

"What if I put on a teddy," Lee said darkly.

"That, I'll miss."

When Lee entered the front room of the Renaissance, there was someone in the far corner painting. Someone who couldn't have been Peter because he was trim. And blond. And wearing knock-off Dockers. Jim turned around and grinned.

"Hey, Chief," he said happily and waved his paint brush, scattering droplets of dark walnut colored paint on the floor.

Lee nodded and looked around for Peter.

"He's in the kitchen," Jim said.

Lee casually walked into the kitchen.

"Why did you hire him?" Lee demanded as soon as the door was closed.

Peter, who was standing on the counter scraping the gray, greasy, dusty paint from the ceiling, looked down at Lee for a moment.

"Hello," he said. "Did you eat?"

"Um... ," Lee said. "No. I forgot. Why did you hire Jim of all people?"

"I didn't hire him," Peter said as he climbed down from the counter. "He wanted to help. Want a kielbasa?"

"Well, we have to pay him," Lee said, not at all happy about having to spend another penny at that moment, especially on Jim.

"No we don't, he's volunteering. It's what people do in theaters. It's what you did, if you remember."

Lee considered that for a moment.

"But we don't have volunteer cards, yet," he said grumpily.

Peter rolled his eyes, shook his head and climbed back up to continue his scraping. A particularly nasty piece of grease-soaked dust and paint dislodged and plunged to the counter top where it hit with a strange, dry sound. Peter looked at it, trying to figure out if he had ever heard that exact sound before.

"Why him?" Lee asked, not willing to give it up.

"Because he showed up," Peter said, beginning to think that Lee might have an annoying side. "He likes you."

"You're the one who slept with him."

"Like I said," Peter said after wincing, "he likes you. Go paint. Or stay here and scrape."

Lee looked back toward the door, then complained that he couldn't possibly go in there with Jim being all happy to help, but he didn't want him in there all alone by himself. Peter got down, handed him the scraper and started toward the door.

"Oh," Lee said. "We do have to fix the roof ourselves."

Peter stopped and put his head down without turning back. Lee told him about the conversations with Andrew and all the without whiches and whatnots. Peter didn't turn around or look up for the entire recitation. When it was done, he nodded and went into the front room.

Stella was just finishing up her day. Finishing up, of course, simply meant moving the pile of papers and files and scripts and ad copy and brochure mockups and bills and memos from members of the board that was in the middle of her desk onto one of the many piles of similar stuff that took up the rest of her desk, the chair by her desk, the floor around her desk or most of what had been Peter's desk and chair. It wasn't that different a process from when Peter was there except the piles were a little more numerous and taller and in the past she had pretty much kept to her side of the room. She was about to put on her coat and scarf when Jim came into her office and gave her a hug and a big kiss.

She grumbled, but not very much, then finally pushed him away and finished putting on the coat. She was about to ask if he wanted to go get dinner somewhere, but stopped.

"You have paint in your hair," she said. "And on your face. And hands."

She looked down, very annoyed, to make sure he hadn't gotten any on her blouse or coat.

"Yeah," he said. "I was painting."

She nodded and sighed and remembered again what a pleasant body he had, then took out a compact mirror to make sure there was no paint on her face or hair.

"I didn't realize Bear was painting a set today," she said as she put the mirror back in her purse, fairly sure she was unsullied. At least unsullied by paint. She wondered vaguely where Bear would be using dark walnut paint on the set for End of the World. It must have been for one of the platforms. But if it had been for a platform, how had Jim gotten it all over his hair and face? Well, he was Jim.

"Oh, no," Jim said with a grin. "I wasn't painting here, I went over to Lee and Peter's new place and helped out a little. It was fun. The place is a mess but... "

The look on Stella's face stopped him. He had learned to notice the looks on her face. Missing one could cause considerable discomfort. He still hadn't yet learned how to translate them fully, but had learned when caution dictated that he simply stop talking and wait for her to elaborate on the look. Gumshoes had a sense of danger like a spider's or a cat's. Of course, he wasn't a gumshoe anymore, and had never had that sense even when he had been. Stella was helping him develop one.

"You," she said, "did what?"

"Um... ," he said, not sure which part of what he had said was the problem. "I... was... painting... with... Lee... "

That was the part.

A stream of words started parading out of Stella and marching around the room in frantic double time. Jim stood very still, hoping none of them would bump into him because he was sure it would be a very painful experience. She was saying things that didn't make any sense to him, words like "betrayal" and "how could you think that would be okay?" and "you are unbelievably dense". A few things did make sense, but he didn't know how they applied to him. Things like "you are a stupid, stupid man."

"I... ," he said when she seemed to be waiting for him to say something.

That was obviously not what she had been waiting for him to say, because she marshaled more words that began piling up on top of one another because the front of the parade had no where to go in the cluttered room where there were more words than he had ever heard one person utter in one breath, words that were beginning to nick and bite at his ankles and shins, then his knees and thighs and he was beginning to wonder if he would survive the tumult because his head was beginning to swim, but finally, she had to breathe in. Which was only a momentary relief.

Wincing and flinching, he backed out of the room, but she followed him, and while she did she continued the onslaught. She followed him out of the theater, managing, somehow, while never letting up, to lock her office and the front door to the building. She followed him all the way to his car. As he stood by it, wondering if he dare get in and drive off, she slowed and stopped. They stared at each other for entirely too long a time. She was breathing in funny bursts and the color had left all the creases in her face and had gathered in the high points of her nose, cheeks and forehead.

"Well," she said. "Don't you have anything to say?"

He tried to think of something. He really did.

"Fine," she said before anything had occurred to him. "Go have fun with Peter and Lee. Go to the Renaissance. Just Go."

"But... "

"Say goodbye, Jim."

"Good... bye," Jim said tentatively, hoping that, if he obeyed her, she'd soften a little.

She flipped her hair grandly, turned and impressively marched to her car in the same cadence her words had taken. Wow, he thought. That was harsh.

Peter sat slumped on his couch, numb. He was too exhausted to get up and go to bed, and anyway, he had soup simmering, so he sat staring at the television screen. It was off, but he didn't seem to mind. The aroma of the chicken soup tried to rouse him, but he was even too tired for that. He'd know when he'd need to turn if off and besides that it didn't need his attention at all. He hadn't even moved the pile of newspapers aside when he'd crumpled down, and they were slowly sliding out from under him. He didn't seem to mind that, either. Cliche just watched him slowly creep toward the edge, wondering idly if he would adjust himself before the inevitable catastrophe occurred. Before it did, however, someone knocked at the door, startling Cliche, who jumped straight up, then landed and licked his front right paw as if nothing had disturbed him. The knock also roused Peter from his reverie.

"Yes?" he said weakly.

"Hey, Big Guy," someone said.

Peter struggled up, stumbled to the door and opened it. Jim stood there looking vaguely distraught. The crisp, dark sky behind him threatened weather of some sort, but Peter was too fuzzy to think just what sort it might be.

"I've been driving around for hours. I'm not sure," Jim said sadly, looking like an abused teddy bear, "but I think Stella just dumped me."

Peter stared at him blankly.

"Can I stay here, tonight? Mmm. Chicken soup."

That woke Peter up completely.

"You... I... You... ," Peter said, his face going flush, and Jim feared he was about to be subjected to another incomprehensible tirade and wondered why everybody hated him.

Peter's mind screamed into high gear, shouting at Jim in a volume that deafened Peter but never actually escaped his mouth, shouting that Jim was completely insensitive and that Peter was not his security blanket and how dare he think that every time someone dumped him it would be okay to just blithely drop by for an evening and lie there all handsome on his couch and who the hell did he think he was and why did Stella dump him, anyway, was she crazy or something, I mean, look at the guy?

"No," Peter said, almost successfully forcing himself to speak calmly. "You need to go home. And please don't come to the Renaissance tomorrow. In case you had planned on it."

Jim was very confused, but went back in his car and drove home.

As soon as the car turned the corner, Peter slammed his front door, then stood there staring at it, breathing heavily. The soup aroma was thickening in a viscerally demanding way. He smiled weakly and went into the kitchen to turn it off. Even simply cooking chicken soup was a balm, and he calmed slowly as he stirred it. He tasted it. It was really good, so he tasted some more. Then he got a bowl and tasted a midnight meal. Twice.

The next morning, Peter carried a grocery bag with two jars full of the thick, rich chicken soup, wrapped in newspapers and paper towels to keep them warm, up Roz's front walk. He was wrapped in a scarf and sweater and coat. The weather that had threatened the night before had turned out to be more snow. He was about to set the bag on her stoop when the door was opened and Roz stood there wearing a thick, old, tufted terrycloth robe that was an uneven light blue. It had probably been dark blue at one time. It looked really comfortable and smelled fresh from the dryer.

"I thought I heard someone drive up," she said.

Peter shrugged and handed her the grocery bag.

"I made soup."

"Peter," she said, then grinned. She pulled one of the jars out and unwrapped it. It had large pieces of carrot, celery and onion and the jar was still very warm. "You really shouldn't have. But I'm sort of glad you did. You are gay. Okay, come on in for coffee. And some soup if you want."

"Oh, no, I had a bunch last night," Peter said. "And for breakfast. And I have more in the car for lunch. It's winter. Look, snow. Coffee would be nice."

Roz laughed. "It's instant."

As she poured hot water over the coffee crystals, she told him that the nausea had vanished as fast as it had come. It had lasted only about forty-five minutes or so.

"Couldn't be food poisoning," she said as she handed him the cup. "If it was, it'd have to be really fast food poisoning."

They sat at the kitchen table and Roz handed Peter sugar and non-dairy creamer with modified corn sweeteners.

"A forty-five minute flu?" Peter said and they both laughed. He stirred his coffee. "Maybe you're pregnant."

Roz burst out laughing, then suddenly stopped. Peter's face went ashen and he froze mid-stir.

"No," Roz said, trying to will the color back into her own face. "It was the flu."

"Yes," Peter said, gently setting the spoon down on the table, depositing a small spot of tan colored coffee on the table top along with it. "Flu."

"I'm sure of it," Roz insisted and another wave of nausea hit her.