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(88106 www.88106.info)    Itsthreeoclockinthemorning.

    Bishopsdaughterisill,stomachpains.Shessleepingonthecouch.

    Bishoptooisill,chillsandsweating,aflu.Hecantsleep.Inbed,helistenstotheoccasionalgroansfromtworoomsaway.Katieisfifteenandspendsthesummerwithhimeveryyear.

    Outsideonthestreet,someonekicksonamotorcycleandrevsitunforgivingly.Hisbedroomisbadlyplaced.

    HesgivenherPepto-Bismol,ifshewakesagainhelltryTylenol.Hewrapshimselfinthesheet,pullshist-shirtawayfromhisdampchest.

    Theresaradioplayingsomewhereinthebuilding,big-bandmusic,hefeelsratherthanhearsit.Thesteady,friendlyair-conditionerhustlinginthenextroom.

    Earlierhedtakenhertoadoctor,whofoundnothing."Youvegotabellyache,"thedoctorsaid,"stickwithfluidsandcallmeifitdoesntgoaway."Katieisbeautiful,tallwithdarkhair.

    Intheafternoontheydgone,groaning,toahorrormovieaboutwolvestakingoverthecity.Atvividmomentsshejumpedagainsthim,pressingherbreastsintohisback.Hemovedaway.

    Whentheywalktogetheronthestreetshetakeshisarm,holdingontightly(because,hefigures,shespendssomuchofhertimeaway,away).Veryoftenpeoplegivethempeculiarlooks.

    Hesbeenpickingupoldladieswhovebeenfallingdowninfrontofhim,theselastfewdays.OnesittinginthemiddleofanintersectionwavingherarmswhiledangerousCheckerscurvedaroundher.Theoldladiesinvariablydisplayasuperbfightingspirit."Thankyou,youngman!"

    Hesforty-nine.Writingahistoryof19thCenturyAmericanpainting,aboutwhichheknowsathingortwo.

    Notenough.

    Agroan,heartfeltbutmuted,fromtheotherroom.Shesawake.

    Hegetsupandgoesintolookather.Thered-and-whitecottonrobesheswearingis,tuckedupunderherknees."Ijustthrewupagain,"shesays.

    "Didithelp?"

    "Alittle."

    Heonceaskedherwhatsomething(abox?achair?)wasmadeofandshetoldhimitwasmadeoutoftree.

    "Doyouwanttotryaglassofmilk?"

    "Idontwantanymilk,"shesays,turningtolieonherfront."Sitwithme."

    Hesitsontheedgeofthecouchandrubsherback."Thinkofsomethingterrific,"hesays."Letsgetyourmindoffyourstomach.Thinkaboutfishing.Thinkaboutthetimeyouthrewthehotelkeysoutofthewindow."Once,inParis,shehaddonejustthat,fromasixth-floorwindow,andBishophadhadvisionsofsomeFrenchmanwalkingdowntheQuaidesGrands-Augustinswithasetofheavyironhotelkeysburiedinhisbrain.Hedfoundthekeysinapottedplantoutsidethehoteldoor.

    "Daddy,"shesays,notlookingathim.

    "Yes?"

    "Whydoyoulivelikethis?Byyourself?"

    "WhoamIgoingtolivewith?"

    "Youcouldfindsomebody.Yourehandsomeforyourage."

    "Ohverygood.Thatsveryneat.Ithankyou."

    "Youdonttry."

    Thisisandisnottrue.

    "Howmuchdoyouweigh?"

    "Oneeighty-five."

    "Youcouldlosesomeweight."

    "Look,kid,gimmeabreak."Heblotshisforeheadwithhisarm."Youwantsomecambrictea?"

    "Youvegivenup."

    "Notso,"hesays."Katie,gotosleepnow.ThinkofagreatbigpileofGuccihandbags."

    Shesighsandturnsherheadaway.

    Bishopgoesintothekitchenandturnsonthelight.Hewonderswhatadrinkwoulddotohim,orforhim——puthimtosleep?Hedecidesagainstit.HeturnsonthetinykitchenTVandspendsafewminuteswatchingsomekindofJapanesemonstermovie.Thepoorlydesignedmonsterispickinguphandfulsofpeopleand,ratherthoughtfully,eatingthem.BishopthinksaboutTokyo.HewasonceinbedwithaJapanesegirlduringamildearthquake,andhesneverforgottenthefeelingofthefloorfallingoutfromunderneathhim,orthewomansterror.Hesuddenlyremembershername,Michiko."Younobutterflyonme?"shehadasked,whentheymet.Hewasastonishedtolearnthat"butterfly"meant,inthepatoisofthetime,"abandon."Shecookedtheirmealsoveracharcoalbrazierandtheysleptinanicheinthewallclosedofffromtherestofherroombyslidingpaperdoors.BishopworkedonthecopydeskatStars&Stripes.Onedayawirephotocameinshowingtheheadsofthefour(then)womensservicesposingforagroupportrait.BishopsluggedthecaptionLEADINGLADIES.TheelderlymastersergeantwhowasservingascityeditorbroughtthephotobacktoBishopsdesk."Wecantdothis,"hesaid."Aintitashame?"

    HeswitcheschannelsandgetsDollyPartonsinging,bycoincidence,"HouseoftheRisingSun."

    Atsomepointduringeachsummershellsay:"Whydidyouandmymothersplitup?"

    "Itwasyourfault,"heanswers."Yours.Youmadetoomuchnoise,asakid,Icouldntwork."Hisex-wifehadoncetoldKatiethisasanexplanationforthedivorce,andhellrepeatituntilitsuntruthismarble,amonument.

    Hisex-wifeisotherwiseverysensible,andthrifty,too.

    WhydoIlivethisway?BestIcando.

    WalkingdownWestBroadwayonaSaturdayafternoon.Barkingartcagedinthehighwhitegalleries,dontgoinsideoritllgetyou,leapintoyourlapandcoveryourfacewithkisses.Somegoestotheotherextreme,snarlsandshowsitsbrilliantteeth.OartIwonthurtyouifyoudonthurtme.Citizensparading,plump-facedandbone-faced,lightlyclad.AyoungblackboytotingaBoardofEducationtrombonecase.Afellowwithoddly-cuthairthecolorofmarigoldsandarollofroofingfeltoverhisshoulder.

    Bishopinthecrowd,thirtydollarsinhispocketincasehehastobuyapaladrink.

    Intoagallerybecauseitmustbedone.TheartistshungtwentyEVERLASTheavybagsinrowsoffour,youreinvitedtohaveabash.Peoplearegivingthebagseverykindoftrouble.Bishop,unabletoresist,bangsonewithhisfabledleft,andhurtshishand.

    Bloodyartists.

    Outonthestreetagain,heisbumpedintobyaman,thenanotherman,thenawoman.AndheresHarryinlemonpantswithhisBritisherfriend,Malcolm.

    "Harry,Malcolm."

    "Professor,"Harrysaysironically(heisaprofessor,Bishopisnot).

    HarrysgotnotmuchhairandhaslostweightsincehesplitwithTom.MalcolmisthesinglemostcheerfulindividualBishophasevermet.

    Harrysuniversityhasjusthiredanewpresidentwhosthirty-two.Harrycantgetoverit.

    "Thirty-two!ImeanIdontthinktheboardsgotbothoarsinthewater."

    StandingbehindMalcolmisabeautifulyoungwoman.

    "ThisisChristie,"Malcolmsays."Wevejustgivenherlunch.Wevejusteatenallthedimsumintheworld."

    BishopisimmediatelyseizedbyadesiretocookforChristie——eitherhisEight-BeanSouporhisCrashCassoulet.

    Shestellinghimsomethingaboutherwindows.

    "Idontcarebutwhyundermywindows?"

    Sheswearingapurpleshirtandisdeeplytannedwithblackhair——lookslikeanIndian,infact,theonewhosellsMazolaonTV.

    Harryisstilltalkingaboutthenewpresident."Imeanhedidhisdissertationonbathingtrends."

    "Wellmaybeheknowswherethebigbucksare."

    Theressomeleftoverduckintherefrigeratorhecanuseforthecassoulet.

    "Well,"hesaystoChristie,"areyouhungry?"

    "Yes,"shesays,"Iam."

    "Wejustate,"Harrysays."Youcantbehungry.Youcantpossiblybehungry."

    "Hungry,hungry,hungry,"shesays,takingBishopsarm,whichis,canyoubelieveit,stickingout.

    PuttingslicesofduckinbeanwaterwhileChristiewatches"TheAdventuresofRobinHood,"withErrolFlynnandBasilRathbone,onthekitchenTV.AtthesametimeHankWilliamsJr.issingingontheFM.

    "IlikeaplacewhereIcantakemyshoesoff,"shesays,asErrolFlynnthrowsawholedeaddeeronthebanquettable.

    Bishop,choppingparsley,istakingquickglancesathertoseewhatshelookslikewithaglassofwineinherhand.Somepeoplelookgoodwithwhitewine,somedont.

    HemakesamentalnotetobuysomeMazola——acase,maybe.

    "Heressixtysecondsonfenders,"saystheradio.

    "Doyoulivewithanybody?"Christieasks.

    "Mydaughterisheresometimes.SummersandChristmas."Alittletarragonintothebeanwater."Howaboutyou?"

    "Theresthisguy."

    Buttherehadtobe.BishopchopssteadfastlywithhisThreeSheepbrandChinesechopper,madeingrayFusan.

    "Hesanartist."

    Aswhoisnot?"Whatkindofanartist?"

    "Apainter.HesinSeattle.Heneedsrain."

    Hethrowshandfulsofslicedonionsintothewater,thenacanoftomatopaste.

    "Howlongdoesthistake?"Christieasks."Imnotrushingyou,Imjustcurious."

    "Anotherhour."

    "ThenIllhavealittlevodka.Straight.Ice.Ifyoudontmind."

    Bishoploveswomenwhodrink.

    Maybeshesmokes!

    "ActuallyIcantstandartists,"shesays.

    "Likewhoinparticular?"

    "Likethatwomanwhoputschewinggumonherstomach——"

    "Shedoesntdothatanymore.Andthechewinggumwasnotpoorlyplaced."

    "Andthatotheronewhocutsoffpartsofhimself,whittlesonhimself,thatfriesmyass."

    "Itssupposedto."

    "Yeah,"shesays,shakingtheiceinherglass."Imreactinglikeabozo."

    ShegetsupandwalksovertothecounterandtakesaLarkfromhispack.

    Veryhappily,Bishopbeginstotalk.Hetellsherthatthenightbeforehehadsmelledsmoke,hadgottenupandcheckedtheapartment,knowingthatapierwasonfireoverbytheriverandsuspectingitwasthat.HehadturnedontheTVtogettheall-newschannelandwhiledialinghadencounteredtheopeningcreditsofaRichardWidmarkcopfilmcalled"BrocksLastCase"whichhehadthensatdownandwatched,hisfaithfulScotchathisside,untilfiveoclockinthemorning.RichardWidmarkwasoneofhisfavoriteactorsinthewholeworld,hetoldher,becauseofthewayinwhichRichardWidmarkwasabletoconvey,whatwastheword,resilience.YoucouldknockRichardWidmarkdown,hesaid,youcouldevenknockRichardWidmarkdownrepeatedly,butyouhadbetterbearinmindwhileknockingRichardWidmarkdownthatRichardWidmarkwasprettydamnsuregoingtobouncebackupandbatteryourconk——

    "RedfordistheoneIlike,"shesays.

    Bishopcanunderstandthis.Henodsseriously.

    "ThethingIlikeaboutRedfordis,"shesays,andfortenminutesshetellshimaboutRobertRedford.

    Hetastesthecassouletwithalongspoon.Moresalt.

    ItappearsthatsheisalsomightyfondofClintEastwood.

    Bishophasthesensethattheconversationhasstrayed,likeabadcow,fromtheproperpath.

    "OldClintEastwood,"hesays,shakinghisheadadmiringly."Wereready."

    Hedishesupthecassouletandfetcheshotbreadfromtheoven.

    "Tasteslikerealcassoulet,"shesays.

    "Thatstheox-tailsoupmix."Whyisheservinghercassouletinsummer?Itshot.

    HesopenedabottleofRobertMondavitablered.

    "Verygood,"shesays."ImeanImsurprised.Really."

    "Maybecouldhavehadmoretomato."

    "No,really."ShetearsoffafistfulofFrenchbread."Menarequiteodd.IsawthisguyatthefarmersmarketonUnionSquareonSaturday?Hewasstandinginfrontofatablefullofgreensandradishesandcornandthisandthat,behindabunchofotherpeople,andhewasstaringatthisfarmer-girlwhowaswearingcut-offsandatanktopandeverytimesheleanedovertograbacabbageorwhatnothewasgettingashotofherbreasts,whichwere,tobefair,quitepretty——Imeanhowmuchfuncanthatbe?"

    "Moderateamountoffun.Somefun.Notmuchfun.WhatcanIsay?"

    "AndthatplugIlivewith."

    "Whatabouthim?"

    "Hegavemeabookonce."

    "Whatwasit?"

    "Bookabouthowtofixhomeappliances.Thedishwasherwasbroken.Thenheboughtmeascrewdriver.Thisreallynicescrewdriver."

    "Well."

    "Ifixedthedamneddishwasher.Tookmetwodays."

    "Wouldyouliketogotobednow?"

    "No,"Christiesays,"notyet."

    Notyet!Veryhappily,Bishoppoursmorewine.

    Nowhessweating,littlechillsatintervals.Hegetsasheetfromthebedroomandsitsinthekitchenwiththesheetdrapedaroundhim,guru-style.HecanhearKatieturningrestlesslyonthecouch.

    Headmiresthewaysheorganizesherlife——thatis,thewayshegetsdonewhatshewantsdone.Alittlewangling,alittlenagging,alittlelets-go-take-a-lookandBishophassprungforanewpairofboots,handsomeankle-heightblackdiablonumbersthatshellwearwithblackskipants

    Well,hedoesntgivehermanypresents.

    CouldhebearaScotch?Hethinksnot.

    HeremembersadreaminwhichhedreamedthathisnosewasasdarkandredasaBingcherry.Aswouldbeappropriate.

    "Daddy?"

    Stillwearingtheyellowsheet,hegetsupandgoesintotheotherroom.

    "Icantsleep."

    "Imsorry."

    "Talktome."

    Bishopsitsagainontheedgeofthecouch.Howlargesheis!

    HegivesherhisArtHistorylecture.

    "ThenyougetMoandMa,thatsalittletricky,Mowastheonedidallthewaterliliesand**,hiscolorswerebluesandgreens,MawastheonedidBareassOntheGrassand**,hiscolorswerebrownsandgreens.ThenyougetBonnard,hedidalltheinteriorsand**,amazinglight,andthenyougetVanGuk,hestheonewiththeearand**,andSay-zanne,hestheonewiththeapplesand**,yougetKandinsky,abadmother,allthempick-up-stickspictures,yougetmymanMondrian,hestheonewiththerectanglesand**,hiscolorswereredyellowandblue,yougetMoholy-Nagy,hedidalltheplasticthingummiesand**,yougetMar-celDu-champ,hesthedevilinhumanform"

    Shesasleep.

    Bishopgoesbackintothekitchenandmakeshimselfadrink.

    Itsfive-thirty.Faintlightinthebigwindows.

    ChristiesinSeattle,andplanstostay.

    Lookingoutofthewindowsintheearlymorninghecansometimesseethetwooldladieswholiveintheapartmentwhosegardenbacksuptohisbuildinghavingbreakfastbycandlelight.Hecanneverfigureoutwhethertheyareterminallyromanticorwhether,rather,theyretryingtosaveelectricity.

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