The air in the front room of the Renaissance was chilly even though the heater was on. Peter stumbled in, set the bag with the jar of soup down, brushed the snow from his coat, shook it from his hair then dramatically sat on an overturned plastic bucket. He sighed. Lee didn't seem to notice, so he sighed again.

"Morning," said Lee, who was already painting high on the wall, getting more than a little on his face. "When's Jim getting here?"

Peter didn't say anything. Which was unusual for Peter.

"Peter?"

"Um... No," Peter said, distractedly. "He's... not coming. I thought you hated him, anyway."

"Yeah," Lee said, "but he's free. And tall. And willing."

"A little too willing for my taste. If you want him back you call him."

Lee's face clouded with horror at the thought of calling Jim to invite him back and he asked Peter why he couldn't just call him. He'd been the one that had slept with the guy, for Heaven's sake. He didn't say that part, of course, but thought it loudly. Peter snippily told him about Jim thinking he was some sort of way station on the road of his twisted love life and that he'd told him not to bother showing up. Lee said they could really use the guy, and his face looked really sincere and sort of pleading in a really cute way, which would normally make Peter do just about anything for him, not that Lee would ever consciously take advantage of him that way, but Peter had other things on his mind and told him curtly that if he wanted the guy, he was going to have to call him himself, and then stormed off into the kitchen. Lee wondered why everyone hated him.

He stood on the ladder for a moment trying to decide how to proceed. In his experience, when someone stormed off into another room unprovoked, doing or saying the wrong thing, or even not doing or saying the right thing, could cause unpredictable unpleasantness. If he was going to have any unpleasantness he liked it to be predictable.

"Um... " he said. "Peter?"

There wasn't any response, which could be a good thing or a bad thing, so he froze. At least his body did. His mind was trying out several possible things to be the next thing he might say. Some were casual and innocuous, some friendly. Some businesslike, some complete non-sequiturs. There was even the possibility of simply saying nothing, which, if he dwelt on it any longer, would end up being the default choice.

"When is the phone going to be installed?" he asked, not sure where that had come from. He didn't remember it being one of the possibilities, but he did have several calls to make. None to Jim, of course, he assured himself.

Peter came out of the kitchen and stood in front of the ladder for a moment. Lee waited for the unpleasantness.

"I'm sorry," Peter said with a sigh. "I have stuff on my mind. Monday."

"Monday?"

"The phone," Peter said. "Installed."

"Oh," Lee said. "Yeah. Thanks."

Peter nodded, turned and went back into the kitchen. Lee wondered if he should ask if anything was wrong.

In the last several days the board of directors, or a small portion of them, had paraded several people through the Willow Lane in an attempt to find someone to replace Peter who could get along with Stella or who Stella could get along with and who had a modicum of experience in a small community theatre or at least in some sort of office or anything besides a bake sale. Bear had stepped out on the stage on Monday just as Stella and the first candidate sparked into a conflagration of spleen. (Spleen, Geoff? Yeah. You know. Antipathy. Antipathy? Cattiness. Oh, rancor. Rancor? Spleen.) Since then there had been a tall, gangly fellow who lumbered in a strange way that seemed to defy gravity and an old, blue-haired woman who took one look at the front office and huffed out without another word. After the first one, Bear had thought it prudent to stay in the scene shop for as much time as possible, hoping that they would find someone innocuous enough not to threaten Stella before she burned the theatre down. In the meantime he would just stay out of the way. End of the World was opening in a week, though, which made it hard not to go into the theatre, what with putting up the set, setting the lights and all. It meant a lot of late nights.

The phone rang.

"Bing bong, bing bong..." (No, Steve.) "Oink?"

"Hello?" Bear asked after brushing sawdust out of his mustache. "Oh. Hi, Dee Dee."

The rhythm at the sides of his neck changed at the sound of her voice, became more insistent, pronounced. He tried to ignore that but it made his throat constrict, which added a small squeak to his voice making him sound like a combination of Barney Fife and Mel Tormé. He wondered if he was going to start getting zits, again, and absently brushed the side of his nose. Dee Dee cautiously told him she wanted to see him. He wanted to see her, also, and cautiously told her so. The edges of the scene shop slowly shrunk from his view. He could no longer see the wood stove. He could barely smell the mucilage. Of course, he was around it so much that wasn't unusual. When Dee Dee suggested that evening, he stopped short. They were just about to go into hell week and he knew he wouldn't be able to see her all the way through opening night, so tonight or tomorrow would be the only time unless they waited until after opening. But if he saw her that night it might put him behind unless he ventured out into Stella territory during the day.

"What about right now?" he asked, surprised that he had enough blood in his brain to come up with such an elegant solution.

"Vincent," she said. "I'm at work."

"So am I. Let's play hooky."

There was a long silence that he wasn't able to read because the rhythm in his throat was getting so loud.

"Sure," she said in a suddenly very quiet, throaty voice. "Okay."

He almost dropped the phone. They quickly decided to meet at her place, then hung up very hurriedly. Vaguely, he hoped the snow had let up. Dee Dee lived in another town and he'd have to drive there, then back when they were done seeing each other. He put his coat on, told the volunteers there to lock the door to the scene shop when they were done and ran to his car, only slipping on the ice once.

Jan stood with her tray looking around for Matt in the noisy cafeteria that smelled like chipped beef and gym class. He was usually sitting with his friends and she saw them where they usually were, but he wasn't with them. He sat alone at the end of the farthest of the long tables. When she spotted him way in the back corner she was a little puzzled, but didn't think about it much. Teenaged boys were always doing weird things. She negotiated the labyrinth of tables and rowdy school mates, expertly lifting her tray above the mayhem, and plopped down next to Matt.

"Hi," she said.

"Hmph," he said and poked at the rude pile of soggy peas on his plate.

"What's wrong?" Jan asked, concerned. She had never experienced him not happy to see her. "Aren't you happy to see me?"

He stared at her for an uncomfortably long time, then shoved a huge fork-full of the hateful vegetables into his mouth and chewed them, even though they required no mastication.

"Oh," she said, and started playing with her own peas. The air in the large, square room felt stale and the noise condensed into a distant buzz.

"I'm sorry," Matt said, then looked back at his tray. The peas looked back. The pile seemed bigger. He breathed in as if he was about to say something, then didn't say anything. He breathed in again and said, "I gotta go."

He left unceremoniously without even bussing his tray. Jan sighed. She tried to eat a pea, but couldn't get it past her lips, so she stacked her tray on top of Matt's and bussed them both.

Peter was exhausted. He'd come home in the afternoon to start pricing theatre equipment. After a few calls he realized he had significantly underestimated how much it would all cost. He had assumed that finding second hand stuff wouldn't be very difficult but it took a couple of hours of phone calls to find one theatre that was upgrading their light and sound board. They wanted a lot more then he had budgeted for their old system. And from the sound of it, it was a very, very old system. He'd gone back to the Renaissance to discuss it with Lee. They'd also discussed what play they would do as their first production. And they discussed hiring. And volunteers. And Proust. Then they'd drifted to different corners of the building and continued the cleanup without talking to each other for the rest of the afternoon and evening. Peter hadn't even eaten his chicken soup.

He was looking forward to a long luxurious sulk on his couch listening to Simon and Garfunkel or Janis Ian or Sylvia Plath or Spike Jones and then a glide into a troubled slumber replete with gluttonously induced dreams. Just as he opened his front door anticipating his sensually depressed evening, the phone rang.

"Bing bong, bing bong..."

"Damn," he said and lumbered to the phone.

It was Fred Ogg. Suddenly, the evening didn't seem so bleak.

"Hey," Peter said as he settled into the comfortable couch cushions.

They chatted amiably for a while, both carefully avoiding any mention of their dinner together or any future dinners together, but both aware that they were avoiding it. Peter talked about the Renaissance and Og talked about traveling and Peter talked about lighting equipment and Fred talked about traveling and Peter talked about Lee and Og talked about traveling.

"So," Fred finally said. "Um... I'm going to be in your area again."

"Oh," Peter said a little more breathlessly than he had planned. "Um... When?"

"Monday."

"Oh. Really? So soon?"

"They're having troubles at one of the stores and I have to fire a manager."

"That can't be fun," Peter said.

"It never is. Usually. I think I might even enjoy it with this guy, though. I never liked him. He was always trouble. He's why I was there last week. Not that I minded being there last week. 'Cause I got to see you and all. And I thought, um... being as I'm going to be so close, you know... again, we could... have... dinner. Again. Together."

"Oh," Peter said cautiously. "Sure."

There was a long pause where neither of them spoke. In fact they barely breathed. Peter's chest seemed to be pulsing to a rhythm distinct from that pulsing in his extremities and his head felt numb.

"Um... ," Fred said. "I could probably be there tomorrow night."

When Peter finally got to sleep that night, his head hadn't yet recovered a pulse.

Lee sat on his couch and stared at the phone for a long time. Peter had given him Jim's number after refusing all afternoon to be the one to call him. They needed help and Jim came free, but Lee fervently wished it could be anyone else. He breathed in heavily, picked up the stupid thing and dialed. Charlie looked at him with a cocked head from across the room. Stupid bird.

When Jim answered, Lee fumbled and stumbled a bit. He sounded to himself like a dry-throated teenager trying to ask the prom queen out for a date. That annoyed him a lot, so he just got to the point in as succinct a way as possible.

"Peter's really sorry he told you not to come to the theater," he said. "And we could really use the help."

There. He'd done it. He'd asked him. And, by his reaction, Jim was very pleased to have been asked and said he'd be there at eight sharp. Lee cringed, thanked him, hung up and contemplated how owning a business forced you to slowly erode your personal integrity and ethics. And better judgement. And gag reflex. Charlie shuddered and fluffed his feathers. Stupid bird.

When Jan got to school Friday morning, Matt was leaning against the wall by the front door, bundled tightly in his coat and scarf, his hands thrust into the pockets of his coat, brooding. Of course, he wasn't very good at it, so it looked more pouty than broody, really, but the intent was not lost on her. She leaned against the wall next to him. The wind blew the loose snow from the ground, making it seem even colder than it was. And it was really cold. Jan watched the mist of Matt's breath as it escaped his nostrils. It looked kind of cool, but when she breathed in, the hairs in her nose froze to a brittle pain and she realized it had been a mistake to try. Matt must really be down. Or his nostrils were so frozen he could no longer feel them.

"What' up?" She asked.

He shrugged in a very pouty, non-committal way. Jan thought about that for a moment. Matt had never tried to brood before, and it was scaring her.

"Did you... ," she asked hesitantly, "kiss another girl?"

Matt's eyes got really wide.

"No!" he said indignantly. "No!"

Then he pushed himself away from the wall and stomped off without taking his hands out of his coat pockets. Jan was really ashamed of herself for asking such a stupid question. It was Matt, for goodness sake. He'd barely ever kissed her. Her stomach was doing stuff it had never done before and she didn't like it. She pushed herself away from the wall and went into the building, wondering if she could make it through the day.

Jim was more annoyingly eager than usual. He even brought donuts, which was a good thought, but they were Dunkin' Donuts™ and mostly tasted of old grease that coated the tongue in a disgusting way, and no amount of scraping the tongue against the teeth could remove it. Blech. And because Peter was really avoiding Jim, it was left to Lee to find things for him to do. And when Peter announced that he was going back to his place to make some calls, Lee desperately tried to think of an excuse to run some errand.

"I have to go find someone to fix the roof," he said, happy that the phone wouldn't be installed until Monday.

"I can do that, Chief," Jim announced proudly.

"Really?" Lee said. "No, I mean there's some sort of hole in it and we have to get a roofer to patch it so it stops dripping on our stage."

"Yeah," Jim said. "I helped my father fix our roof a bunch of times."

Lee thought it must be too good to be true, and tried to think of what must be wrong with it.

"It's not a shingle roof like a house, Jim," Lee said. "It looks like some sort of tar paper."

"Yeah, Boss. Just like my dad's office building. You know, he's a private investigator. He had a building. It was brick. Well, the walls were. The roof was this tar paper stuff with little gravel in it. It was sort of slanted. Dad said that was so the snow didn't cave it in. We fixed it a bunch of times. I can go get a five gallon bucket of Henry®'s. Back in a flash."

He grabbed his coat eagerly and left while putting it on. Maybe I've been too harsh on the guy, Lee thought. A moment later Jim came back in. He was zipping his coat. Once it was zipped, he just stood looking eager.

"What?" Lee asked.

"Don't have any money, Champ," Jim said.

Lee gave him a pail full of damp quarters (Steve!) a couple of twenties and sent him on his way.

Jim was back a moment later to ask if they had a ladder tall enough. Lee assured him they did and he left again. A few moments later he was back to find out where the local hardware store was. Lee gave him directions to Aunt Gladys's. Jim left eagerly then didn't come back for a couple of hours.

Bear met Dee Dee for lunch again. It had to be a quick moment together this time because she couldn't play hooky two afternoons in a row. After they were done seeing each other at the end of her lunch hour, which turned out to be a little more than an hour and a half, she asked if they could get together over the weekend.

"Oh," Bear said. "Um... We open next Friday. It's hell week."

Dee Dee stiffened a little, then, summoning an incredible quantity of self restraint from some corner of her body that she didn't know she had, nodded and told him to call her after the play opened. Bear's head vibrated all the way back to the Willow Lane.

Lee was painting the walls in the front room. He felt a little put upon, being the only one there. Some part of his mind kept trying to remind him that Peter was working from home, trying to get equipment and Jim would be back soon to fix the roof, but he kept deflecting that part so he could feel put upon. The front door opened and he turned, expecting to tell Jim where the ladder was, but it wasn't him.

"Hi," Kim said.

Lee was surprised to see her, knowing that her very presence might jeopardize her future at the Willow Lane.

"Aren't you afraid you might jeopardize your future at the Willow Lane?" he asked her.

She shrugged and asked if they had chosen their first play, yet.

"Yentl," Lee said.

Kim laughed and said, "No, seriously."

He was very embarrassed to tell her they hadn't settled on anything, yet.

"What plays are you thinking about?" she asked.

He would have been even more embarrassed to tell her they hadn't even gotten that far, so he didn't answer.

"Well, um... ," Kim said. "Have you figured out... um... do you have a director for it, yet?"

She seemed even more embarrassed than he was to ask that question. He just shook his head.

"Um... ," she said. "Because... ya see, I doubt if I ever could at the Willow Lane... you know... I'm just sort of the stage manager there, so, um... would you consider... "

Lee fumbled for a moment and said he'd never thought about it and that he'd have to talk to Peter. Kim took her coat off, found a paint brush, climbed up the ladder and started on the wall. Lee suddenly didn't feel so put upon. The door opened and Jim came in carrying a blue five gallon bucket of Henry® Wet Patch® Roof Cement®®®®®®. (Steve, please stop drinking coffee. ®.)

"Hey," he said when he saw Kim.

"Hey," she said back and Lee thought he saw her eyes sparkle a little. Then he shook his head and realized he must be wrong because he never noticed things like people's eyes sparkling.

Then Peter came in. Lee vaguely thought of a scene in a Marx Brothers' movie, but this was a large room, not a small one. And it wasn't on a ship. And the four of them could hardly be considered slapstick. Peter looked dazed. He wandered around a little aimlessly, then sat down on the upturned bucket.

"What's up, Big Guy?" Jim asked.

"Roz doesn't have the flu," he said a little absently.

None of them had a clue what he meant.

Jim managed to patch the roof without getting any Henry on his clothing. He did, however, somehow get a blob on the end of his nose, which Kim found charming. Which Lee found disquieting. When Kim told him he looked like a puppy dog, Lee went into the other room. Peter was in there, scrubbing the counter tops. Well, actually, he was scrubbing one spot on one of the counter tops. It looked like he had been scrubbing the same spot for some time. The surrounding top was still grimy gray, but the one circular patch under Peter's hand was clearly worn, tan Formica speckled with gold. Peter looked up when Lee came in.

"Hi," he said halfheartedly.

"Hi," Lee said as heartedly as he could.

"I have a date tonight," Peter said.

"With Fred? Ogg? So soon? That's great," Lee said. "Isn't it?"

Peter shrugged.

"He has to fire somebody," Peter said, as if that explained everything, then he sort of smiled, then he dropped the rag he was using into the plastic bucket full of tepid, grimy water with sad, scattered clumps of gray soap bubbles that were trying valiantly to survive on its unforgiving surface. "I'm going to go."

That surprised Lee.

"Um... ," he said. "Okay."

Instead of going home, Peter went to Roz's house.

"I'll marry you," he said as soon as she opened the door.

Roz burst into a strange laugh, then invited him in.

"What, I'm serious," Peter said as he stepped in. He looked hurt, which made her laugh even more. "I'm supposed to go out to dinner tonight with... someone, but I'll call it off. How can you be so calm?"

"I don't know," she said with a shrug and sat. "I just... I don't know. Would you rather I be mean? Because I can, you know. Why would you ever call it off?"

"No, no, it's okay. Calm is good. Because you need me."

Peter sat on the other side of the couch. Roz shook her head, imagining what life with Peter might be like. He can cook, she thought. Ah, I'd just get fat, anyway. Her house smelled different, somehow. Like baby powder. Not really exactly like baby powder. More like impending baby powder. Peter sneezed.

"Okay, gay man," she said. "If I wanted a husband I would want a husband, not a roommate. Bless you."

"I'd be a husband," Peter insisted. His eyes were wide open making his face look completely in earnest. "I did it once." Then he added, "Thank you," and sneezed again.

"And I'm proud of you, but no." She was starting to sound a little less calm.

Peter scowled and looked at his hands, which seemed unusually soft and doughy. He put them under his thighs, which also looked doughy all the way through his trousers. I have to work out, he thought. He felt really conflicted. Not about working out. He knew he wasn't going to do that. He was sort of relieved that Roz didn't want to marry him, but also felt like he might cry. He wasn't sure why, but it had something to do with Roz not wanting to marry him. Rejection was rejection even if you really didn't want to marry the someone who was rejecting you. He wondered if she might have some cheese. I really have to work out, he thought. He looked over at her. She was looking straight ahead and her hands were fidgeting in her lap. She looked like she might cry. Without even thinking, Peter slid across the couch and put his arm around her.

"What am I going to do?" she said, starting to weep.

"About what?" he said and laughed. (No, he didn't, Steve. He's not you. Then who is? No one is quite sure. Will the real Steve Mancini please stand up? Sit down, Steve.) Peter didn't say anything.

"Okay," she said, then sat up straight and wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands. "I'm done." Then she started to laugh again.

"Wow. Is it going to be like that for nine months?" Peter asked sheepishly.

"Probably."

Peter got up, found the bathroom, pulled some toilet paper from the roll and brought it back to her. She thanked him and blew her nose noisily.

"Oh, my God," Peter said and Roz looked over at him. He had an odd grin and his breath was suddenly shallow. "I'm going to be a daddy!"

"Yes, you are," Roz said. "So am I."

"I want to be in his or her life even if you don't marry me."

"You better be in his or her life, you fucker."

"Don't swear in front of my child."

"Didn't you say you had dinner plans?" Roz said to change the subject to anything that didn't have to do with what they had been talking about. "With who?"

"A guy I used to know in college," Peter said and blushed.

"So you're cheating on me already?"

"No... I... No... I can cancel it," Peter said.

"Peter, you're so easy."

Peter thought about saying they both were, which is why she got all pregnant and stuff, but a big voice in his head stopped him just in time to prevent the humiliation of becoming just as crass as Roz was and not wearing it nearly as well.

Lee had just finished scrubbing the rest of the counters in the kitchen when Kim and Jim came in to clean up the paint brushes and pans. They said they were done with the walls. Lee was impressed and thanked them. While they washed up, he went out to have a look. The place was actually shaping up. He tried to imagine what it would look like with tables and chairs and people watching actors on the stage. He couldn't quite do it, but it made the warmth in his chest spread up to his face anyway. Kim and Jim came out and the three of them stood admiring the room for a moment. Then Jim helped Kim on with her coat and they said they'd see him in the morning. Kim and Jim, Lee thought as they left. Jim and Kim. It just sounds too silly.

Besides that, though, things were moving along nicely. The roof was patched. The front room was painted, the kitchen was scrubbed. As he rinsed out the scrub bucket, he decided he could knock off since everyone else had already done so. He'd treat himself to dinner at Twain's.

When Peter drove up, Og was waiting for him in front of the diner. He was bundled up and looked very cold, but brightened when he saw Peter. They embraced, and not nearly as clumsily as the last time. Parts of their chests actually made contact with each other. Well, their coats, but it was contact. Fred's briefcase fell open and its contents spilled out; pens and pads and an appointment book and files and papers and ointment. (Ointment? Yeah, you know, balm, unguent, poultice. That's a dressing, not a salve. You mean like thousand island? No, like pants. Cream, lotion, preparations, liniment, tincture, demulcent, palliative.... You work really hard for those word jokes, don't you? No, I just use the thesaurus. I was being sarcastic. Ah, sarcastic; ironic, sardonic, cynical, dry... Okay, give me the thesaurus. No. I refuse. I won't. I will do no such thing. Over my dead body. Not likely. Like hell I will. That's not really in there. Yes. Affirmative. Indeed. Stop! Stop it! Just stop! Stop it right now! Stop! Jeez, gay men are so sensitive.) Peter helped Og pick everything back up, then asked Fred why he was carrying his briefcase to the diner.

"So Steve could get his stupid ointment joke in," Fred said.

"Alleged joke," Peter said. (Hey!)

And now back to our program.

The same young, blond waitress that had waited on them last Sunday came up to their table. They both said "Hi" in a very familiar way but she didn't react at all, just tapped her pencil against her pad waiting for them to order. When it was clear they weren't ready, yet, she nodded and walked away. Peter and Fred laughed.

"We could come in here every night for a year and she'd probably never recognize us," Og said.

Peter smiled an odd, small smile that went away very fast.

"What's up, Pete?" Fred said. "Peter. Sorry, I was just trying that out. Doesn't fit you, does it?"

"When I was little, I used to call myself 'Pee'."

"Pea?"

"No, Pee."

"You did not."

"No, I didn't. I've always been Peter. Even when I was small. Just small Peter Paul Principal."

"So, Peter Paul," Fred insisted. "What's up? You look sort of odd. Aren't you glad to see me?"

"I... yes!" Peter said, then his face reddened. "Of course, I am. It's just... I... "

"What?"

It took him a while, but Peter eventually told him the story of The Night on Beard's Hill and the cascading ramifications of having being kicked in the head by Roz Pitality on a snowy slope. They were almost finished with their main course by the time Peter related the conversation he and Roz had that afternoon.

"And I'm really sort of hurt that she doesn't want to marry me."

"Oh," Fred said. "Really?"

"No," Peter said. "I mean, I'm relieved, but... I don't know."

"So," Og said. "You cheated on me."

"I... What?"

Fred started laughing and Peter felt better than he had since that morning.

Lee sat at the counter waiting for his meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Matt was acting odd, and Lee wondered if everyone in town always did things in some sort of sync as if they were those clams that opened and closed to the tides even when they were three hundred miles inland, but that had nothing to do with his dinner. When Matt plopped his plate down in front of him a little rudely, Lee looked up at him and noticed what looked like a pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket. But it couldn't really be cigarettes. It was Matt, for goodness sake. Even acting odd, Matt wouldn't have a pack of cigarettes. It was probably just ointment. Or a brick. Lee pointed to them and Matt looked down at his pocket.

"They're cigarettes, okay?" Matt said and took them out and threw them on the counter.

The pack had a red shield edged in gold on the front. Viceroy. It hadn't even been opened. Lee tried to remember if he had ever known anyone who had smoked Viceroy. For a while, his dad had smoked Laredo. Which were roll-your-own. Which had embarrassed Lee. So he didn't think about it long. Matt looked like he was trying very hard to look very hard. He also looked like he was going to cry. He ran back to the kitchen.

Lee looked longingly at his meatloaf and mashed potatoes. He knew they'd be all cold and impossible to eat after he got back from finding out what the hell was wrong with Matt. Why do I always have to be the sensitive one, Lee thought as he threw his napkin down on the counter, picked up the cigarette pack and went in back. Matt was leaning against the counter with his back to the door. His shoulders were slumped. He looked like a cross between a young James Dean and an old Mel Tormé. He looked tired.

"What's going on, Matt?" Lee said.

"Nothing."

"Has Twain seen these?" Lee asked, and dropped the pack on the counter in front of Matt.

Matt shrugged.

"What did he say?"

"He told me not to smoke them in the diner."

Lee leaned against the counter next to Matt, but faced the other way. He didn't know how to proceed. There was a thin line between being supportive and making sure the kid did the right thing. If he was supportive, would he be encouraging the kid to do things he shouldn't do? But if he tried to steer him to do what he should, would the kid even listen? He wondered if that was what it felt like to be a father. If it were, he didn't like it much and was glad he was using condoms. Which he hoped Matt wouldn't ask him about. And anyway, if he were a father, he wasn't Matt's father, so if that's what Matt wanted to talk about he had an actual father he should go to. Matt had always been such a squeaky-clean kid, it never occurred to Lee that adolescence attacked them all, eventually. Now he was cornered. He needed to get Matt to talk so he could find out what was going on, but he really didn't want to know. What if the kid had gotten Jan pregnant or something. What would he do then? Condoms would be the least of it. Why was stuff always happening to me, Lee thought.

"So what's up?" Lee said, figuring he might as well just plunge in, even if the water was going to be really cold.

Two Days Earlier: (Good transition, Steve. You haven't used that one. Thank you.)

It started snowing in the early evening on Wednesday, and by the time Matt was about to get off, the streets were already invisible under the soft, white silence. There weren't many people in the diner. The man with the John Deere® hat sat at the counter nursing his ketchup smothered lasagna and steaming cup of black coffee. His hat was on the counter next to the coffee cup. It had a dark stain all the way around the brim. When he wore the hat, he looked like he had a full head of hair. When it was off, he had a bald spot in the exact shape of the hat. But that has nothing to do with this flashback.

Agnes sat in one of the tall booths finishing her poached trout. Her tasteful fur coat was thrown over the back of the booth and looked, somehow, richly appropriate against the impossibly red leather or leatherette vinyl and made the little silver upholstery tacks look somehow grand. It was dark outside. Matt brought her the check.

"Just a second, Dear, I have it right here."

Matt waited as she opened her small, black, patent leather clutch purse. His grandmother used to have one of those and when he was younger, he would play with the funny double clasp on the top, shaped like brass apostrophes, that snapped open and closed. He used to open and close it rhythmically for hours on end, wondering if it would ever wear out. He had done that until his grandmother had asked him patiently to stop because it wasn't a toy. After that, he'd only done it when she wasn't looking.

"Here you are, Dear," Agnes said, and handed him a twenty.

Matt took it to Twain at the cash register. The man with the John Deere hat® signaled that he wanted his check and while Twain counted out Agnes's change, Matt totaled it up and handed it to him.

"It seems to be snowing," Agnes said when Matt brought her change back.

Matt looked out the window and nodded.

"Is your mother coming to pick you up?" She asked him.

He shrugged.

"She doesn't like to drive in the snow," he said.

Agnes smiled understandingly.

"I'm already out in it," she said. "I could take you. Call her and tell her not to worry."

"Um," Matt said, "okay. Sure. Thanks. You sure?"

She was. Matt called his mother and told her not to worry, he had a ride. The man with the John® Deere hat settled his bill, snuggled into his hat and left. After Matt finished helping Twain close, he and Agnes bundled up and went out to her car.

"Oh," she said as she pulled out. "Could I ask you to do a small favor for me?"

"Sure," Matt said. "What?"

"Well, I have a small table that needs moving. It's not big, but I can't seem to manage it by myself. I will, of course, pay you."

"Oh," he assured her, "don't worry about that. No problem."

"You don't mind the detour? It should only take a few minutes. Will your mother mind?"

He assured her he could be out until ten.

When they got to Agnes's place, she took him into the dining room and pointed to the small table against the wall.

"I've wanted that in the living room forever, but it's just a little too much for me. It would be perfect under the window to put plants on, don't you think?"

Matt nodded. The table had a couple of nice service plates and bowls and a framed photograph on it. Agnes moved those to the dining room table and took the lace cloth from it. Matt lifted the little table and followed Agnes into the living room. He set it down under the big front window, then adjusted it until Agnes was pleased with its placement.

"Thank you so very much," Agnes said to him. "That was simply too heavy for me."

Matt told her it was nothing. It hadn't been heavy at all, really. He wasn't even winded and was happy to have helped. Agnes brought the lace and photograph out. She put the lace on the table, but stared at the photograph for a moment, then gestured to the couch.

"Have a seat, Dear, I want to show you something," she said.

She sat next to him and presented the photo. The frame was beautiful; silver with a very simple leaf pattern etched into it. The photo itself was of a young couple in formal clothing. The guy was very stern looking, but the woman had a grin that lit her face. She was a knockout. Agnes pointed to the guy.

"My husband," she said very simply.

"That's you?" Matt said, startled, and looked from the picture to her face to find some similarity.

"Yes, Dear," Agnes said, smiling at his charming lack of social graces.

Matt took the picture from her and studied it. Agnes leaned in a bit closer, pointed at the dress and explained it was the dress her husband had gotten her for their first anniversary. She started to describe her wedding dress, then laughed when his eyes got a little dull and his smile lost its spontaneity.

"That's okay, young man," she said and patted his leg. "You're not expected to be interested in such things."

Matt's smile became real again.

"Once more, I thank you," she said. "You have such strong arms."

He blushed, then did the Popeye flex and laughed. She squeezed his muscle obligingly and smiled. Then she took his hand.

"Your hands are so soft," she said and Matt scowled, which made Agnes laugh. "I know no fellow likes to be told his hands are soft, but it's a good thing. They're soft, but strong. I like that."

She turned his hand over and looked at his palm. Matt looked, too, a bit confused, trying to figure out what she was looking at. Then she took his hand and brushed her cheek with the back of it. Matt stopped breathing. Agnes smiled softly and gently guided his hand down her face, her neck, and slid it deftly under the top of her blouse. Matt's eye got wide. His face got very hot and he could feel his pulse in his fingertips that were, at that very moment, resting on the side of her bosom just under her bra. Neither of them moved. Matt didn't think he could if he tried. He had remembered how to breathe, but seemed to be doing far too much of it. He felt lightheaded and the skin on his face seemed to be tingling somewhere in the distance and was starting to sweat. Half of his mind was celebrating his first boob. The other half was reminding him he had homework to do. The third half was closed for repair.

Somewhere outside, the snow softly continued to fall.