"Well, come in," Harold said. "You know, you're just about my first company. Frannie and Stu have been out a few times, but they hardly count." His grin became a smile, a slightly sad smile, and Larry felt sudden pity for this boy-because a boy was all he was, really. He was lonely and here stood Larry, same old Larry, never a good word for anyone, judging him on vapors. It wasn't fair. It was time for him to stop being so goddam mistrustful.

"Glad to," he answered.

The living room was small but comfortable. "I'm going to put in some new furniture when I get around to it," Harold said. "Modern. Chrome and leather. As the commercial says, 'Fuck the budget. I've got MasterCard.' "

Larry laughed heartily.

"There are some good glasses in the basement, I'll just get them. I think I'll pass on the candybars, if that's all right with you-I'm off the sweets, trying to lose weight, but we've got to try the wine, this is a special occasion. You came all the way across the country from Maine behind us, huh, and following my-our-signs. That's really something. You'll have to tell me all about it. Meanwhile, try that green chair. It's the best of a bad lot."

Larry had one final doubtful thought during this outpouring: He even talks like a politician-smooth and quick and glib. He even talks like a politician-smooth and quick and glib.

Harold left, and Larry sat down in the green chair. He heard a door open and then Harold's heavy tread descending a flight of stairs. He looked around. Nope, not one of the world's great living rooms, but with a shag rug and some nice modern furniture, it might be fine. The best feature was the stone fireplace and chimney. Lovely work, carefully done by hand. But there was one loose stone on the hearth. It looked to Larry as if it had come out and had been put back a little carelessly. Leaving it like that would be like leaving one piece out of the jigsaw puzzle or a picture hanging crooked on the wall.

He got up and picked the stone out of the hearth. Harold was still rummaging around downstairs. Larry was about to put it back in when he saw there was a book down in the hole, its front now lightly powdered with rockdust, not enough to obscure the single word stamped there in gold leaf: LEDGER LEDGER.

Feeling slightly ashamed, as if he had been prying intentionally, he put the rock back in place just as Harold's footfalls began to ascend the stairs again. This time the fit was perfect, and when Harold came back into the living room with a balloon glass in each hand, Larry was seated in the green chair again.

"I took a minute to rinse them out in the downstairs sink," Harold said. "They were a bit dusty."

"They look fine," Larry said. "Look, I can't swear that Bordeaux hasn't gone over. We might be helping ourselves to vinegar."

"Nothing ventured," Harold said, grinning, "nothing gained."

That grin made him feel uncomfortable, and Larry suddenly found himself thinking about the ledger-was it Harold's, or had it belonged to the house's previous owner? And if it was Harold's, what in the world might be written in there?

They cracked the bottle of Bordeaux and found, to their mutual pleasure, that it was just fine. Half an hour later they were both pleasantly squiffed, Harold a little more so than Larry. Even so, Harold's grin remained; broadened, in fact.

His tongue loosened a bit by wine, Larry said: "Those posters. The big meeting on the eighteenth. How come you didn't get on that committee, Harold? I would have thought a guy like you would have been a natural."

Harold's smile became large, beatific. "Well, I'm awfully young. I suppose they thought I didn't have experience enough."

"I think it's a goddam shame." But did he? The grin. The dark, barely glimpsed expression of suspicion. Did he? He didn't know.

"Well, who knows what lies in the future?" Harold said, grinning broadly. "Every dog has its day."

Larry left around five o'clock. His parting from Harold was friendly; Harold shook his hand, grinned, told him to come back often. But Larry had somehow gotten the feeling that Harold could give a shit if he never came back.

He walked slowly down the cement path to the sidewalk and turned to wave, but Harold had already gone back inside. The door was shut. It had been very cool in the house because the venetian blinds were drawn, and inside that had seemed all right, but standing outside it occurred to him suddenly that it was the only house he'd been inside in Boulder where the blinds and curtains were drawn. But of course, he thought, there were still plenty of houses in Boulder where the shades were drawn. They were the houses of the dead. When they got sick, they had drawn their curtains against the world. They had drawn them and died in privacy, like any animal in its last extremity prefers to do. The living- maybe in subconscious acknowledgment of that fact of death-threw their shutters and their curtains wide.

He had a slight headache from the wine, and he tried to tell himself that the chill he felt came from that, part of a little hangover, righteous punishment administered for guzzling good wine as if it was cheap muscatel. But that wouldn't quite get it-no, it wouldn't. He stared up and down the street and thought: Thank God for tunnel vision. Thank God for selective perception. Because without it, we might as well all be in a Lovecraft story. Thank God for tunnel vision. Thank God for selective perception. Because without it, we might as well all be in a Lovecraft story.

His thoughts became confused. He became suddenly convinced that Harold was peeping at him from between the slats of his blinds, his hands opening and closing in a strangler's grip, his grin turned into a leer of hatred ... Every dog has its day Every dog has its day. At the same time he was remembering the night in Bennington, sleeping on the stage of the bandshell, waking up to the horrible feeling that someone was there ... and then hearing (or only dreaming it?) the dusty sound of bootheels moving off to the west.

Stop it. Stop freaking yourself out.

Boot Hill, his mind free-associated. his mind free-associated. Chrissake, just stop it, wish I'd never thought about the dead people, the dead people behind all those closed blinds and pulled drapes and shut curtains, in the dark, like in the tunnel, the Lincoln Tunnel, Christ, what if they all started to move, to stir around, Holy God, cut it out Chrissake, just stop it, wish I'd never thought about the dead people, the dead people behind all those closed blinds and pulled drapes and shut curtains, in the dark, like in the tunnel, the Lincoln Tunnel, Christ, what if they all started to move, to stir around, Holy God, cut it out- And suddenly he found himself thinking of a trip to the Bronx Zoo with his mother when he had been small. They had gone into the monkey -house and the smell in there had hit him like a physical thing, a fist driven not just at his nose but into it. He had turned to bolt out of there, but his mother had stopped him.

Just breathe normal, Larry, she had said. she had said. In five minutes you won't notice that nasty smell at all. In five minutes you won't notice that nasty smell at all.

So he had stayed, not believing her, just fighting not to puke (even at the age of seven, he had hated to puke worse than anything), and it turned out she was right. When he looked down at his watch the next time, he saw that they had been in the monkey-house for half an hour, and he couldn't understand why the ladies who came in the door were suddenly clapping their hands over their noses and looking disgusted. He said as much to his mother, and Alice Underwood had laughed.

Oh, it still smells bad, all right. Just not to you.

How come, Mommy?

I don't know. Everybody can do it. Now just say to yourself, "I'm going to smell how the monkey-house REALLY is again, and take a deep breath.

So he did, and the stink was there, the stink was even bigger and badder than it had been when they first came in, and his hotdogs and cherry pie started to come up on him again in one big sickening whipped bubble, and he had charged for the door and the fresh air beyond it and managed-barely-to hold everything down.

That's selective perception, he thought now, he thought now, and she knew what it was even if she didn't know what it's called. and she knew what it was even if she didn't know what it's called. This thought had no more than completed itself in his mind before he heard his mother's voice saying, This thought had no more than completed itself in his mind before he heard his mother's voice saying, Just say to yourself, "I'm going to smell how Boulder REALLY smells again. Just say to yourself, "I'm going to smell how Boulder REALLY smells again. " And he was smelling it-just like that, he was smelling it. He was smelling what was behind all the closed doors and drawn shades and pulled blinds, he was smelling the slow corruption that was going on even in this place which had died almost empty. " And he was smelling it-just like that, he was smelling it. He was smelling what was behind all the closed doors and drawn shades and pulled blinds, he was smelling the slow corruption that was going on even in this place which had died almost empty.

He walked faster, not running but getting closer and closer to it, smelling that fruity, rich reek which he-and everyone else-had stopped consciously smelling because it was everywhere, it was everything, it was coloring their thoughts, and you didn't pull your shades even if you were making love because the dead lie behind drawn shades and the living still want to look out on the world.

It wanted to come up on him, not hotdogs and cherry pie now but wine and a Payday candybar. Because this was one monkey-house he was never going to be able to get out of, not unless he moved to an island where no one had ever lived, and even though he still hated to puke worse than anything, he was going to now- "Larry? Are you okay?"

He was so startled that a little noise-"Yike!"-squeaked out of his throat and he jumped. It was Leo, sitting on the curb about three blocks down from Harold's. He had a Ping-Pong ball and was bouncing it up and down on the pavement.

"What are you doing here?" Larry asked. His heartbeat was slowly returning to normal.

"I wanted to walk home with you," Leo said diffidently, "but I didn't want to go into that guy's house."

"Why not?" Larry asked. He sat down on the curb beside Leo.

Leo shrugged and turned his eyes back to the Ping-Pong ball. It made a small whock! whock! whock! whock! sound as it struck the pavement and bounced back up to his hand. sound as it struck the pavement and bounced back up to his hand.

"I don't know."

"Leo?"

"What."

"This is very important to me. Because I like Harold ... and don't like him. I feel two ways about him. Have you ever felt two ways about a person?"

"I only feel one way about him." Whock! Whock! Whock! Whock!

"How?"

"Scared," Leo said simply. "Can we go home and see my Nadine-mom and my Lucy-mom?"

"Sure."

They continued down Arapahoe for a while without speaking, Leo still bouncing the Ping-Pong ball and catching it deftly.

"Sorry you had to wait so long," Larry said.

"Aw, that's okay."

"No, really, if I'd known I would have hurried up."

"I had something to do. I found this on a guy's lawn. It's a Pong-Ping ball."

"Ping-Pong," Larry corrected absently. "Why do you think Harold would keep his shades down?"

"So nobody can see in, I guess," Leo said. "So he can do secret things. It's like the dead people, isn't it?" Whock! Whock! Whock! Whock!

They walked on, reached the corner of Broadway, and turned south. They saw other people on the streets now; women looking in windows at dresses, a man with a pickaxe returning from somewhere, another man casually sorting through fishing tackle in the broken display window of a sporting goods store. Larry saw Dick Vollman from his party biking in the other direction. He waved at Larry and Leo. They waved back.

"Secret things," Larry mused aloud, not really trying to draw the boy out anymore.

"Maybe he's praying to the dark man," Leo said casually, and Larry jerked as if brushed by a live wire. Leo didn't notice. He was double-bouncing his Ping-Pong ball, first off the sidewalk and then catching it on the rebound from the brick wall they were passing...whock-whap!

"Do you really think so?" Larry asked, making an effort to sound casual.

"I don't know. But he's not like us. He smiles a lot. But I think there might be worms inside him, making him smile. Big white worms eating up his brain. Like maggots."

"Joe ... Leo, I mean-"

Leo's eyes-dark, remote, and Chinese-suddenly cleared. He smiled. "Look, there's Dayna. I like her. Hey, Dayna!" he yelled, waving. "Got any gum?"

Dayna, who had been oiling the sprocket of a spidery-thin ten-speed bike, turned and smiled. She reached into her shirt pocket and spread out five sticks of Juicy Fruit like a poker hand. With a happy laugh, Leo ran toward her, his long hair flying, Ping-Pong ball clutched in one hand, leaving Larry to stare after him. That idea of white worms behind Harold's smile ... where had Joe (No, Leo, he's Leo, at least I think he is) (No, Leo, he's Leo, at least I think he is) gotten an idea as sophisticated-and as horrible-as that? The boy had been in a semi-trance. And he wasn't the only one; how many times in the few days he had been here had Larry seen someone just stop dead on the street, looking blankly at nothing for a moment, and then go on? Things had changed. The whole range of human perception seemed to have stepped up a notch. gotten an idea as sophisticated-and as horrible-as that? The boy had been in a semi-trance. And he wasn't the only one; how many times in the few days he had been here had Larry seen someone just stop dead on the street, looking blankly at nothing for a moment, and then go on? Things had changed. The whole range of human perception seemed to have stepped up a notch.

It was scary as hell.

Larry got his feet moving and walked over to where Leo and Dayna were sharing out the chewing gum.

That afternoon Stu found Frannie washing clothes in the small yard behind their building. She had filled a low wash-tub with water, had shaken in nearly half a box of Tide, and had stirred everything with a mop-handle until a sickly suds had resulted. She doubted if she was going about this in the right way, but she was damned if she was going to go to Mother Abagail and expose her ignorance. She dumped their clothes in the water, which was stone-cold, then grimly jumped in and began to stomp and slosh around, like a Sicilian mashing grapes. Your new model Maytag 5000, Your new model Maytag 5000, she thought. she thought. The Double-Foot Agitation Method, perfect for all your bright colors, fragile underthings, and The Double-Foot Agitation Method, perfect for all your bright colors, fragile underthings, and- She turned around and beheld her man, standing just inside the backyard gate and watching with an expression of amusement. Frannie stopped, a little out of breath.

"Ha-ha, very funny. How long have you been there, smartypants?"

"Couple of minutes. What do you call that, anyway? The mating dance of the wild wood duck?"

"Again, ha-ha." She looked coolly at him. "One more crack like that and you can spend the night on the couch, or up on Flagstaff with your friend Glen Bateman."

"Say, I didn't mean-"

"They're your clothes too, Mr. Stuart Redman. You may be a Founding Father and all that, but you still leave an occasional skidmark in your underdrawers."

Stu grinned, the grin broadened, and finally he had to laugh. "That's crude, darlin."

"Right now I don't feel particularly delicate."

"Well, pop out for a minute. I need to talk to you."

She was glad to, even though she would have to wash her feet before getting back in. Her heart was hurrying along, not happily but rather dolefully, like a faithful piece of machinery being misused by someone with a marked lack of good sense. If this was the way my great-great-great-grandmother had to do it, Fran thought, then maybe she was entitled to the room which eventually became my mother's precious parlor. Maybe she thought of it as hazard pay, or something like that.

She looked down at her feet and lower legs with some discouragement. There was still a thin sheath of gray soapsuds clinging to them. She brushed at it distastefully.

"When my wife handwashed," Stu said, "she used a ... what do you call it? Scrub board, I think. My mother had about three, I remember. "

"I know that," Frannie said, irritated. "June Brinkmeyer and I walked over half of Boulder looking for one. We couldn't find a single one. Technology strikes again."

He was smiling again.

Frannie put her hands on her hips. "Are you trying to piss me off, Stuart Redman?"

"No'm. I was just thinking I know where I can get you a scrub board, I think. Juney too, if she wants one."

"Where?"

"You let me look and see first." His smile disappeared, and he put his arms around her and his forehead on hers. "You know I appreciate you washing my clothes," he said, "and I know that a woman who is pregnant knows better than her man what she should and shouldn't be doing. But, Frannie, why bother?"

"Why?" She looked at him, perplexed. "Well, what are you going to wear? Do you want to go around in dirty clothes?" She looked at him, perplexed. "Well, what are you going to wear? Do you want to go around in dirty clothes?"

"Frannie, the stores are full of clothes. And I'm an easy size."

"What, throw out old ones just because they're dirty?" dirty?"

He shrugged a little uneasily.

"No way, uh-uh," she said. "That's the old way, Stu. Like the boxes they used to put your Big Mac in or the no-deposit-no-return bottles. That's no way to start over."

He gave her a little kiss. "All right. Only next washday it's my turn, you hear?"

"Sure." She smiled a little slyly. "And how long does that last? Until I deliver?"

"Until we get the power back on," Stu said. "Then I'm going to bring you the biggest, shiniest washer you ever saw, and hook it up myself."

"Offer accepted." She kissed him firmly and he kissed back, his strong hands moving restlessly in her hair. The result was a spreading warmth (hotness, let's not be coy, I'm hot and he always gets me hot when he does that) that first peaked her nipples, then spread down into her lower belly.

"You better stop," she said rather breathlessly, "unless you plan to do more than talk."

"Maybe we'll talk later."

"The clothes-"

"Soaking's good for that grimed-in dirt," he said seriously. She started to laugh and he stopped her mouth with a kiss. As he lifted her, set her on her feet, and led her inside, she was struck by the warmth of the sun on her shoulders and wondered, Was it ever so hot before? So strong? It's cleared up every last blemish on my back...could it be the ultraviolet, I wonder, or the altitude? Is it this way every summer? Is it this hot? Was it ever so hot before? So strong? It's cleared up every last blemish on my back...could it be the ultraviolet, I wonder, or the altitude? Is it this way every summer? Is it this hot?

And then he was doing things to her, even on the stairs he was doing things to her, making her naked, making her hot, making her love him.

"No, you sit down," he said.