"How's school going?"
"I like the teachers and all but I can't stand the other kids. They're all assholes."
"Don't say that. Such language. What's the matter, do they ignore you?"
"I wish they would. They tease me about my freckles. They call me Carrottop." Her little voice breaks.
"Well, then. They like you. They think you're terrific. Just don't wear too much lipstick until you're fifteen. Remember what I told you last time we talked?"
"You said don't force it."
"Right. Don't force it. Let nature do its work. Do what your mommy and daddy tell you. They love you very much."
She wearily sighs, "I know."
"You're the light of their lives. You ever hear that expression before, `the light of their lives'?"
"No."
"Well then, you've learned something. Now go do your thing, honey. Could you put Roy on?"
"He's too dumb to talk."
"No he's not. Put him on. Tell him his grandpa wants to give him some words of wisdom."
The phone clatters down and in the background there is a kind of shredded wheat of family noises – he thinks he even hears Janice's voice, sounding decisive the way Ma Springer's used to. Footsteps approach through the living room he knows so well – the Barcalounger, the picture windows with the drawn curtains, the piecrust-edged knickknack table, though the green glass egg, with the teardrop of emptiness inside, that used to sit on it is now on the shelves here, a few feet from his eyes. Pru's voice says, "Janice says she doesn't want to talk to you, Harry, but here's Roy."
"Hi, Roy," Harry says.
Silence. God on the line again.
"How's it going up there? I hear it rained all day."
More silence.
"Are you being a good boy?"
Silence, but with a touch of breathing in it.
"You know," Harry says, "it may not feel like much to you right now, but these are important years."
"Hi, Grandpa," the child's voice at last pronounces.
"Hi," Harry has to respond, though it puts him back to the beginning. "I miss you down here," he says.
Silence.
"A little birdie comes to the balcony every morning and asks, `Where's Roy? Where's Roy?"'
Silence, which is what this lie deserves. But then the child comes out with the other thing he's perhaps been coached to say: "I love you, Grandpa."
"Well, I love you, Roy. Happy Birthday, by the way, for next month. Five years old! Think of it."
"Happy Birthday," the child's voice repeats, in that oddly deep, manlike way it sometimes has.
Harry finds himself waiting for more but then realizes there is no more. "O.K.," he says, "I guess that does it, Roy. I've loved talking with you. Give everybody my love. Hang up now. You can hang up."
Silence, and then a clumsy soft clatter, and the buzz of a dead line. Strange, Rabbit thinks, hanging up his own receiver, that he had to make the child do it first. Chicken in a suicide pact.
Alone, he is terrified by the prospect of an entire evening in these rooms. It is seven-thirty, plenty of time to still make the buffet, though his mouth feels tender from all that hot lasagna and the bagful of onion potato chips, full of sharp edges and salt. He will just go down and pick a few low-cal items off the buffet table. Talking to his family has exhilarated him; he feels them all safely behind him. Without showering, he puts on a shirt, coat, and tie. Mrs. Zabritski isn't at the elevator. In the half-empty Mead Hall, under the berserk gaze of the Viking warriors in the big ceramic mural, he helps himself generously to, among other items, the scallops wrapped in bacon. The mix of textures, of crisp curved bacon and rubbery yielding scallops, in his sensitive mouth feels so delicious his appetite becomes bottomless. He goes back for more, and more creamed asparagus and potato pancakes, then suddenly is so full his heart feels squeezed. He takes a Nitrostat and skips dessert and coffee, even decal Carefully he treads back across the alien texture of that Florida grass and the carpeted traffic island beneath the warm dome of stars, really a deep basin we are looking down into, he saw that this afternoon when he did the upside-down set shot, we are stuck fast to the Earth like flies on a ceiling. He feels stuffed and dizzy. The air is thick, the Milky Way just barely shows, like the faint line of fair hair up the middle of some women's bellies.
He gets back into the condo in time for the last fifteen minutes of Grouting Pains, the only show on TV where every member of the family is repulsive, if you count Roseanne's good-old-boy husband as not repulsive. Then he flips back and forth between Unsolved Mysteries on Channel 20 and an old Abbott and Costello on 36 that must have been funnier when it came out, the same year he graduated from high school. Costello's yips seem mechanical and aggravating, and Abbott looks old, and cruel when he slaps his fat buddy. People yelled and snapped at one another like animals then. Maybe the Sixties did some good after all. Among the commercials that keep interrupting is that Nissan Infiniti one of crickets and lily ponds, no car at all, just pure snob Nature. The Lexus commercials he's seen are almost as vague – an idyllic road shiny with rain. They're both skirting the issue: can the Japanese establish a luxury image? Or will people with thirty-five thousand to burn prefer to buy European? Thank God, Harry no longer has to care. Jake down toward Pottstown has to care, but not Harry.
He brushes his teeth, taking care to floss and rinse with Peridex. Without Janice here he is becoming staid in his habits, another old-fogey bachelor fussing with his plumbing and nostril hairs. Nostril hairs: he never wants to look like Dr. Morris. His double dinner burns in his stomach but when he sits on the toilet nothing comes out. Phillips' Milk of Magnesia, he should get some. Another of their commercials has a black man talking about MOM and that was unfortunate, his color made the shit too real. In bed, on the march to Yorktown, the allied armies come upon British atrocities around Williamsburg. De Grasse's Swedish aide Karl Gustaf Tomquist, a latter-day Viking, noted in his journal, On a beautiful estate a pregnant woman was found murdered in her bed through several bayonet stabs; the barbarians had opened both of her breasts and written above the bed canopy: "Thou shalt nevergive birth to a rebel. " In another room, was just as horrible a sight -five cut-off heads arranged on a cupboard in place of plaster-cast-figures which lay broken to pieces on the floor. Dumb animals were no less spared. The pastures were in many places covered with dead horses, oxen, and cows. Harry tries to fall asleep through a screen of agitation bred by these images. He has always thought of the Revolution as a kind of gentlemen's war, without any of that Vietnam stuff. He begins to have those slippery half-visions, waking dreams that only upon reflection make no sense. He sees a woman's round stomach, with smooth seams and a shining central fuzz, split open and yield yards and yards of red string, like the inside of a baseball. Then he is lying beside a body, a small man dressed all in black, a body limp and without muscle, a ventriloquist's dummy, wearing sunglasses. He awakes in the dark, too early for the sound of lawnmowers, for the cheep of the dull brown bird in the Norfolk pine, for the chatter of the young businessmen's dawn foursomes. He makes his way to the bathroom amid motionless glossy shapes and slants of dim light – the blue oven-timer numerals, the yellowish guard lights on the golfcourse fence. He urinates sitting down, like a woman, and returns to bed. Always he sleeps on his old side of the bed, as if Janice is still on her side. He dreams now of the portal with the round top, but this time it pushes open easily, on noiseless unresistant hinges, upon a bustling brightness within. It is somehow Ma Spnnger's downstairs, only you step down into it, a kind of basement, brighter than her house ever was, with a many-colored carnival gaudiness, like something in Latin America, like the cruise-ship commercial they keep playing in the middle of the news, and full of welcoming people he hardly knows, or can barely remember: Mrs. Zabritski as a slender young girl, though still with that inviting inquisitive crick in her neck, and wearing a racily short fringed skirt like they wore in the Sixties, and Marty Tothero carrying a mailman's pouch that matches his lopsided face, and Mom and Pop in their prime, looking tall and rangy in their Sunday best, bringing a baby girl home from the hospital wrapped in a pink blanket, just its tiny tipped-up nose and a single tiny closedeyelid eye showing, and a tall soberly staring dark-eyed man with lacquered black hair like an old ad for Kreml, who gives him a manly handshake, while Janice at his side whispers to him that this of course is Roy, Roy all grown up, and as tall as he. Awaking, Rabbit can still feel the pressure on his hand, and a smile of greeting dying on his face.