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saw the crashing bike； the bobbing flashlight。 There had been a squib in the
paper the next day； no more than a space…filler really； but the owner had not
been named。 Why it had been out there in the night would always be a mystery to
them； and perhaps that was as it should be。
He went back out to the car and gave Danny his slightly melted Baby Ruth。
〃Daddy？〃
〃What； doc？〃
Danny hesitated； looking at his father's abstracted face。
〃When I was waiting for you to e back from that hotel； I had a bad dream。
Do you remember？ When I fell asleep？〃
〃Um…hm。〃
But it was no good。 Daddy's mind was someplace else； not with him。 Thinking
about the Bad Thing again。
（I dreamed that you hurt me； Daddy）
〃What was the dream； doc？〃
〃Nothing；〃 Danny said as they pulled out into the parking lot。 He put the maps
back into the glove partment。
〃You sure？〃
〃Yes。〃
Jack gave his son a faint； troubled glance； and then his mind turned to his
play。
》
NIGHT THOUGHTS
Love was over； and her man was sleeping beside her。
Her man。
She smiled a little in the darkness； his seed still trickling with slow warmth
from between her slightly parted thighs； and her smile was both rueful and
pleased； because the phrase her man summoned up a hundred feelings。 Each feeling
examined alone was a bewilderment。 Together； in this darkness floating to sleep；
they were like a distant blues tune heard in an almost deserted night club；
melancholy but pleasing。
Lovin' you baby； is just like rollin' off a log；
But if I can't be your woman； I sure ain't goin' to be your dog。
Had that been Billie Holiday？ Or someone more prosaic like Peggy Lee？ Didn't
matter。 It was low and torchy； and in the silence of her head it played
mellowly； as if issuing from one of those old…fashioned jukeboxes； a Wurlitzer；
perhaps； half an hour before closing。
Now； moving away from her consciousness； she wondered how many beds she had
slept in with this man beside her。 They had met in college and had first made
love in his apartment 。。。 that had been less than three months after her
mother drove her from the house； told her never to e back； that if she wanted
to go somewhere she could go to her father since she had been responsible for
the divorce。 That bad been in 1970。 So long ago？ A semester later they had moved
in together； had found jobs for the summer； and had kept the apartment when
their senior year began。 She remembered that bed the most clearly； a big double
that sagged in the middle。 When they made love； the rusty box spring had counted
the beats。 That fall she had finally managed to break from her mother。 Jack had
helped her。 She wants to keep beating you； Jack had said。 The more times you
phone her； the more times you crawl back begging forgiveness； the more she can
beat you with your father。 It's good for her； Wendy； because she can go on
making believe it was your fault。 But it's not good for you。 They had talked it
over again and again in that bed； that year。
（Jack sitting up with the covers pooled around his waist； a cigarette burning
between his fingers； looking her in the eye — he had a half…humorous； half…
scowling way of doing that — telling her： She told you never to e back； right？
Never to darken her door again； right？ Then why doesn't she hang up the phone
when she knows it's you？ Why does she only tell you that you can't e in if
I'm with you？ Because she thinks I might cramp her style a little bit。 She wants
to keep putting the thumbscrews right to you； baby。 You're a fool if you keep
letting her do it。 She told you never to e back； so why don't you take her at
her word？ Give it a rest。 And at last she'd seen it his way。）
It had been Jack's idea to separate for a while — to get perspective on the
relationship； he said。 She had been afraid he had bee interested in someone
else。 Later she found it wasn't so。 They were together again in the spring and
he asked her if she had been to see her father。 She had jumped as if he'd struck
her with a quirt。
How did you know that？
The Shadow knows。
Have you been spying on me？
And his impatient laughter； which had always made her feel so awkward — as if
she were eight and he was able to see her motivations more clearly than she。
You needed time； Wendy。
For what？
I guess 。。。 to see which one of us you wanted to marry。
Jack； what are you saying？
I think I'm proposing marriage。
The wedding。 Her father had been there； her mother had not been。 She
discovered she could live with that； if she had Jack。 Then Danny had e； her
fine son。
That had been the best year； the best bed。 After Danny was born； Jack had
gotten her a job typing for half a dozen English Department profs — quizzes；
exams； class syllabi； study notes； reading lists。 She ended up tvping a novel
for one of them； a novel that never got published 。。。 much to Jack's very
irreverent and very private glee。 The job was good for forty a week； and
skyrocketed all the way up to sixty during the two months she spent typing the
unsuccessful novel。 They had their first car； a five…year…old Buick with a baby
seat in the middle。 Bright； upwardly mobile young marrieds。 Danny forced a
reconciliation between her and her mother； a reconciliation that was always
tense and never happy； but a reconciliation all the same。 When she took Danny to
the house； she went without Jack。 And she didn't tell Jack that her mother
always remade Danny's diapers； frowned over his formula； could always spot the
accusatory first signs of a rash on the baby's bottom or privates。 Her mother
never said anything overtly； but the message came through anyway： the price she
had begun to pay （and maybe always would） for the reconciliation was the feeling
that she was an inadequate mother。 It was her mother's way of keeping the
thumbscrews handy。
During the days Wendy would stay home and housewife； feeding Danny his bottles
in the sunwashed kitchen of the four…room second…story apartment； playing her
records on the battered portable stereo she had had since high school。 Jack
would e home at three （or at two if he felt he could cut his last class）； and
while Danny slept he would lead her into the bedroom and fears of inadequacy
would be erased。
At night while she typed； he would do his writing and his assignments。 In
those days she sometimes came out of the bedroom where the typewriter was to
find both of them asleep on the studio couch； Jack wearing nothing but his
underpants； Danny sprawled fortably on her husband's chest with his thumb in
his mouth。 She would put Danny in his crib； then read whatever Jack had written
that night before waking him up enough to e to bed。
The best bed； the best year。
Sun gonna shine in my backyard someday 。。。
In those days； Jack's drinking had still been well in hand。 On Saturday nights
a bunch of his fellow students would drop over and there would be a case of beer
and discussions in which she seldom took part because her field had been
sociology and his was English： arguments over whether Pepys's diaries were
literature or history； discussions of Charles Olson's poetry； sometimes the
reading of works in progress。 Those and a hundred others。 No； a thousand。 She
felt no real urge to take part； it was enough to sit in her rocking chair beside
Jack； who sat cross…legged on the floor； one hand holding a beer； the other
gently cupping her calf or braceleting her ankle。
The petition at UNH had been fierce； and Jack carried an extra burden in
his writing。 He put in at least an hour at it every night。 It was his routine。
The Saturday sessions were necessary therapy。 They let something out of him that
might otherwise have swelled and swelled until he burst。
At the end of his grad work he had landed the job at Stovington； mostly on the
strength of his stories — four of them published at that time； one of them in
Esquire。 She remembered that day clearly enough； it would take more than three
years to forget it。 She had almost thrown the envelope away； thinking it was a
subscription offer。 Opening it； she had found instead that it was a letter
saying that Esquire would like to use Jack's story 〃Concerning the Black Holes〃
early the following year。 They would pay nine hundred dollars； not on
publication but on acceptance。 That was nearly half a year's take typing papers
and she had flown to the telephone； leaving Danny in his high chair to goggle
ically after her； his face lathered with creamed peas and beef puree。
Jack had arrived from the university forty…five minutes later； the Buick
weighted down with seven friends and a keg of beer。 After a ceremonial toast
（Wendy also had a glass； although she ordinarily had no taste for beer）； Jack
had signed the acceptance letter； put it in the return envelope； and went down
the block to drop it in the letter box。 When he came back he stood gravely in
the door and said； 〃Veni； vidi； vici。〃 There were cheers and applause。 When the
keg was empty at eleven that night； Jack and the only two others who were still
ambulatory went on to hit a few bars。
She had gotten him aside in the downstairs hallway。 The other two were already
out in the car； drunkenly singing the New Hampshire fight song。 Jack was down on
one knee； owlishly fumbling with the lacings of his moccasins。
〃Jack；〃 she said； 〃you shouldn't。 You can't even tie your shoes； let alone
drive。〃
He stood up and put his hands calmly on her shoulders。 〃Tonight I could fly to
the moon if I wanted to。〃
〃No；〃 she said。 〃Not for all the Esquire stories in the world。〃
〃I'll be home early。〃
But he hadn't been home until four in the morning； stumbling and mumbling his
way up the stairs； waking Danny up when he came in。 He had tried to soothe the
baby and dropped him on the floor。 Wendy had rushed out； thinking of what her
mother would think if she saw the bruise before she thought of anything else —
God help her； God help them both — and then picked Danny up； sat in the rocking
chair with him； soothed him。 She had been thinking of her mother for most of the
five hours Jack had been gone； her mother's prophecy that Jack would never e
to anything。 Big ideas； her mother had said。 Sure。 The welfare lines are full of
educated fools with big ideas。 Did the Esquire story make her mother wrong or
right？ Winnifred； you're not holding that baby right。 Give him to me。 And was
she not holding her husband right？ Why else would he take his joy out of the
house？ A helpless kind of terror had risen up in her and it never occurred to
her that he had gone out for reasons that had nothing to do with her。
〃Congratulations；〃 she said； rocking Danny — he was almost asleep again。 〃Maybe
you gave him a concussion。〃
〃It's just a bruise。〃 He sounded sulky； wanting to be repentant： a little boy。
For an instant she hated him。
〃Maybe；〃 she said tightly。 〃Maybe not。〃 She heard so much of her mother
talking to her departed father in her own voice that she was sickened and
afraid。
〃Like mother like daughter；〃 Jack muttered。
〃Go to bed！〃 she cried； her fear ing out sounding like anger。 〃Go to bed；
you're drunk！〃
〃Don't tell me what to do。〃
〃Jack 。。。 please； we shouldn't 。。。 it 。。。〃 There were no words。
〃Don't tell me what to do；〃 he repeated sullenly； and then went into the
bedroom。 She was left alone in the rocking chair with Danny； who was sleeping
again。 Five minutes later Jack's snores came floating out to the living room。
That had been the first night she had slept on the couch。
Now she turned restlessly on the bed； already dozing。 Her mind； freed of any
linear order by encroaching sleep； floated past the first year at Stovington；
past the steadily worsening times that had reached low ebb when her husband had
broken Danny's arm； to that morning in the breakfast nook。
Danny outside playing trucks in the sandpile； his arm still in the cast。 Jack
sitting at the table； pallid and grizzled； a cigarette jittering between his
fingers。 She had decided to ask him for a divorce。 She had pondered the question
from a hundred different angles； had been pondering it in fact for the six
months before the broken arm。 She told herself she would have made the decision
long ago if it hadn't been for Danny； but not even that was necessarily true。
She dreamed on the long nights when Jack was out； and her dreams were always of
her mother's face and of her own wedding。
（Who giveth this woman？ Her father standing in his best suit which was none
too good — he was a traveling salesman for a line of canned goods that even then
was going broke — and his tired face； how old he looked； how pale： I do。）
Even after the accident — if you could call it an accident — she had not been
able to bring it all the way out； to admit that her marriage was a lopsided
defeat。 She had waited； dumbly hoping that a miracle would occur and Jack would
see what was happening； not only to him but to her。 But there had