All the Way in Flagstaff, Arizona

A SHORT STORY

BY RICHARD BAUSCH

SITTING IN THE SHADED, COOL QUIET OF ST. PAUL’S Church in Flagstaff, Walter remembers a family picnic. This memory is two years old, but nothing ever fades from it. It takes place in a small park, called Hathaway Forest, on Long Island, one Sunday afternoon in early summer. He and his wife, Irene, spread blankets on the grass next to a picnic table and a brick barbecue pit; it is a warm, clear-blue day, with a breeze. Irene has insisted that they all go, as a family, and so soccer games, trips to the movies and to the houses of friends, have been put aside. Because Walter is hung over, he tries to beg off, but she will not hear of it; she will not cater to his hangovers anymore, she tells him. So they all go. He and Irene sit quietly on the blankets as, in the grass field before them, the children run—William, the oldest, hanging back a little, making a sacrifice of pretending to have a good time: he is planning for the priesthood these days, wants to be Gregory Peck in The Keys of the Kingdom. He saw the movie on television a year ago and now his room is full of books on China, on the lives of the saints, the missionaries, the martyrs. Every morning he goes to mass and communion. Walter feels embarrassed in his company, especially when William shows this saintly, willing face to the world.

“I wonder if it would help William to discover masturbation,” Walter says. “He’s at that age, isn’t he? Don’t boys start at fourteen? When did I start? I guess I should remember—”

“I forgot the baked beans,” Irene says. “I left them sitting in the middle of the kitchen counter.” She has this way of not hearing him when she wants to avoid a subject; she will not talk about William. “You want some lemonade?”

“No, thanks.” He makes a face, she smiles. He can always make her laugh.

The children form a ring, and begin to move in a circle. Susan, the second child, orchestrates this, calling in a kind of singing cadence as they contract and expand the ring by raising and lowering their arms. They are playing well together, cooperating; even William seems to have forgotten about heaven and hell for the moment, moving a little too fast for the youngest, the baby, Carol, to keep up with him. There is something mischievous about the way he causes the girl to falter and lose her hold on him.

“You should light the charcoal, honey,” Irene says.

“Certainly,” he says. He is anxious to please. He knows she will again have to ask her father for money, and she will again use the word borrow. There is always the hope that something will change. He stands over the brick barbecue pit and pours charcoal, while she pours more lemonade, not bothering to ask him this time if he wants any. In the car, in the space under the spare tire, hidden by a halfused roll of paper towels, is a fifth of Jim Beam. He thinks of it with something bordering on erotic anticipation, though his head feels as if it were webbed with burning wires. As he sprinkles lighter fluid on the coals, he begins to plan how he will get to the bottle without the others knowing he has done so.

“Dad.”

It is William, standing a little apart from Susan and the younger children. He holds up a nurf football, wanting to pass it.

Walter smiles. “I’m cooking. I’m the chef of the day.”

William wants to get a game up, boys against the girls; he wants Irene to play. She refuses, cheerfully, and so does Susan, and the younger boys begin a desultory game of keep away from Carol, who begins to take it seriously, crying and demanding that she be given a chance to throw and catch the ball. William and Susan walk off toward the far edge of the woods, talking, William pausing now and then to pick up and throw a stone or a piece of wood. Irene sits reading a magazine, with a pad and pencil on her lap. She likes to write down the recipes she finds, and keeps the pad for this purpose. In fact, she doesn’t read these magazines as much as she ransacks them, looking for things to save. She is a frugal woman; she’s had to be. She controls the money now, what there is of it. Since the last hitch in the Army, Walter has worked seven different jobs; now, at forty-six, he’s night clerk in a 7-Eleven store.

“That’s enough,” Irene calls to the two younger boys, Brad and James, who have tormented Carol to the point of a tantrum. Carol is lying on her stomach, beating her fists into the grass, while they toss the ball above her head, keeping it just out of reach. “Brad! Bra-a-a-a-d! James!”

The two boys stop, finally, walk away scuffing the ground. In a moment they are running across the field, and Carol has come crying to her mother. Because she is the youngest and the smallest, she has learned to be feisty and short-tempered; she seems somehow always dogged, face into the wind, dauntless. “Don’t pay any attention to them,” Irene is saying.

Walter lights the fire, stands watching it.

“You go on, now, and play,” Irene says, and Carol whines that she doesn’t want to, she wants to stay here, “No— now, go on. Go have fun. I don’t want you hanging back all afternoon. Go on—go.”

Carol wanders over to a little play area near the car; it is, in fact, too near: it will be hard to get anything out of the trunk if she stays where she is, riding a sea dragon on a corkscrew-like metal spring.

“I don’t like her being over there by herself,“ Walter says.

“She’s fine,” says Irene. “Let her alone.”

He sits down, rubs his hands; he wants a drink.

“You want to put the hot dogs on sticks?” Irene asks.

“That tire’s low,” he says.

“No, it’s not.”

“It is—look. Look at it. It’s low. I better change it.”

“You’re in no shape to change a tire.”

He gets up. “I think it’s low.”

“Walter.”

“I’m just going to look at it.”

“Hi, Daddy,” Carol says as he approaches.

“Go see your mother.”

“I’m riding the dragon.”

“Your mother wants you.”

“I don’t wanna.”

“Come on,” he says, “I have to look at this tire.” He lifts her from the dragon, puts her down on her feet, or tries to: she raises her legs, so that he comes close to falling forward; he lifts again, tries again to set her down, and it is as if they dance. “Stop it,” he says. “Stand up.” She laughs, and he sets her suddenly, with a bump, down on her rear end. “Now, you can sit there,” he says. She begins to cry. He walks over to the car and stands gazing at the right rear tire, which is not low enough. Even so, he opens the trunk, glances back at Irene, who is lying on the blanket like a sunbather now, her arms straight at her sides, her eyes closed. Carol still whines and cries, sitting in the dust in the foreground.

“Go on,” Walter says. “You’re not hurt.”

“Carol,” Irene calls without moving, “come here.”

Walter is already reaching into the little well beneath the spare. The Beam is wrapped in a paper bag, and carefully he removes it, leaning into the hot space. In almost the same motion, he has broken the seal on the bottle and held the lip of it to his mouth, swallowing. He caps it, peers out at Irene and Carol, who are frozen for him in a sort of tableau: Carol beginning to move toward her mother, and Irene lying face up to the sun. He leans in, takes another swallow, caps the bottle again and sets it down, rattles the jack, stands back slowly, and puts his hands on his hips.

“Walter.”

“It’s okay,” he calls. “I guess it’ll have to do—the spare’s no better.” He looks at Irene, sees that Carol has reached her, that she is involved with Carol, who wants her to fix the bow in her hair. So he leans into the trunk again, swallows more of the whiskey. Then he recaps the bottle one more time, puts it back in its place, retrieves it almost immediately, and takes still another swallow. He closes the trunk hard, walks steadily across to the blanket, where Irene and Carol are busy trying to get Carol’s hair braided and bowed. He sits down, looks at the flames licking low along the whitening coals. When Carol asks him to look at how pretty her hair is, he tells her she is the most beautiful little girl he ever saw. He reaches for her, pulls her to him, and hugs her. “You are my sweet sweet sweet sweet thing,” he says. “You are my sweetie-pie. My little baby love darling boost-a-booter.”

“I love you, Daddy.”

She removes herself from him, dances, for his benefit, in a circle around the blanket. Then she runs off to meet William and Susan, who are coming across the crest of the field.

“I COULD BE LIKE THIS ALL THE TIME,” IRENE says.

He says, “Yeah.” He gets up, stands over the fire. “The coals are almost ready.”

“What’s the mat—” she begins.

He has swayed only slightly; he pretends simply to have lost his balance on an unevenness in the ground, looks at his feet, lifts one leg, puts it down. It is a beautiful blurred world, and he believes he can do anything.

“It’s brave of you to come out today,” she says.

“I wanted to.”

“You know, Walter, I am going to leave you.”

“Right now?”

She ignores this. “I don’t want to. I love you. But I really am. You don’t believe me, Walter, because you’ve never believed me. But this time you’re wrong. In a while, very soon, Walter, I’m going to take the children and go.”

“But don’t you see?” he says. “I’m going to quit. I’m never touching the stuff again.”

“No,” she says.

“No what?”

“Let me tell you, dear, what you were thinking about all the way here, and what you finally got your hands on a few minutes ago. You were thinking all the time, weren’t you, about the bottle of booze you had stashed in the trunk of the car.”

“What bottle of booze?”

“I believe it was Jim Beam?” She looks at him.

He wonders if she can see the color changing in his face and neck, the blood rushing there. “Jim Beam,” he says. “Jim Beam.”

“It won’t work, Walter.”

“You think that’s it? You think I’ve been—you think that’s what I’ve been doing, huh.” He is nodding, looking away from her, trying to control his voice. “You think—on a beautiful day like this, when I’m with my family— some—a bottle of booze in the trunk—”

“Forget it,” she says.

“I didn’t know—I didn’t even know if there was a bottle of booze in the goddamn spare-tire well.”

“Please,” she says.

“You think I’ve been thinking about a goddamn bottle of booze in the trunk of the car.”

“All right, then.”

“That’s what you think of me. I mean—we’ve come that far—that you’d think I could be standing here on this nice day thinking about sneaking drinks like there’s some—like there’s a problem or something—”

“Walter,” she says.

“I mean like it wasn’t just—you know, a drink in the afternoon or something—”

“Don’t say any more,” she tells him.

“Just something I found and—you think I haven’t been sick at heart for what I’ve done, Irene.” He has never meant anything more. “I didn’t even think anything about it, honey—you think I’d do anything to hurt you or the kids—something—some bottle or something that’s supposed to be hidden or something. Like I planned it or something. I swear I just remembered it was there—I didn’t—didn’t want to worry you, Irene—Irene—”

“The sad thing,” Irene says, “is that I could’ve stopped you today—just now. I knew what you were doing—after all, Walter, you’ve become a bit sloppy in your various deceptions and ruses. They’ve become pretty transparent. I could’ve stopped you, only I just—I just didn’t have the energy.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says. He looks at his children, all of them coming now from the crest; they seem somehow not together, though they come in a group, no more than five feet apart.

“I wish I could feel anything but this exhaustion,” Irene says.

“It’s not anything like I’m drunk or anything,” Walter says. “I just needed to get calmed down, honey.”

“No,” she says.

“You know me, Irene. I always—haven’t I always come through?”

She looks at him. “I think—now—that you think you have.”

“I just need a little time,” he says.

“Walter.”

“That’s all, honey. Just let me get straight a little.” He doesn’t want to talk anymore. He drops down at her side. “I’m nervous, kid. I get real bad nervous—and—and I’m not going to drink anymore. I’m simply—absolutely done with it. Forever, Renie. Okay? I’m going to pull it together this time.” As he gazes out at the field, at his children returning, he is full of resolve, and courage. Irene sighs, pats his shoulder, and then takes his hand into her own. “Poor Walter,“ she says, “so sick,”

“I’ll be all right,” he says. “I just need to be calm.”

The children are there now, and the picnic is made ready: William puts hot dogs on the grill, and Susan dishes out potato salad, Jell-O, bread, pickles. There is a lot of vying for attention, a lot of energy and noise.

It all rises around Walter and his wife, who do not look at each other.

ANYONE WALKING INTO ST. PAUL’S AT THIS HOUR wall see a man sitting in the last pew, hands folded in his lap. He sits very straight, with dignity, though his clothes are soiled and disheveled. In his mind are the voices of two years ago, the quality of light on that day. and how the breezes blew, fragrant and warm. He can hear the voices.

“Oh,” William says, shortly after they start to eat, “we forgot to say grace.”

“It’s too late now?,” Susan says.

“It’s not too late. It can’t ever be too late.”

“It’s too late.”

“It’s not too late—that’s just silly.”

“Daddy, isn’t it too late?”

“It’s not too late,” Irene says. “William, go ahead.”

“Bless us, 0 Lord, and these thy gifts, w’hich we are about to receive, from thy bounty, through Christ our Lord, amen.”

“I still say it was too late,” Susan says.

Irene says, “Susan.”

“I’ve decided I’m going to be a nun,” Susan says.

“Susan—that is nothing to joke about.”

“It’s not a joke. I’m going to be a nun and wear icky black clothes and have my hair cut off at the roots and sit in church with my hands open in my lap like Sister Marie does.”

“That’s a sacrilege,” William says.

“What’s a sacrilege?” Brad asks.

“It’s when you talk like Susan,” says William.

“That’s enough, children,” Walter says.

“A sacrilege,” says Susan, “is when you take holy communion with a mortal sin on your soul.”

“And when you say you’re going to be a nun when you’re not,” William says.

“Come on,” Walter says, “let’s get off each other a little. Let’s talk about something nice.”

“I know,” says Brad. “Let’s talk about Pac-Man.”

“Who wants to talk about that,” says Carol.

“All I said was I was going to be a nun,” Susan says, “and everybody gets crazy. Mostly Saint William. You should’ve heard Saint William a little while ago, planning his martyrdom in China—shot by the Commies. Right, William?”

“That’s enough,” Walter says. “Let him alone. Let’s everybody let everybody else alone. Jesus.”

“Have mercy on us,” William mutters.

“Oh, look,” Walter says, “don’t do that. Don’t pray when I talk.”

Irene says, “Let’s just eat quietly, all right?”

“Well, he keeps praying around me. Jesus, I hate that.”

“Have mercy on us,” says William.

“When’re you leaving for China, Son?”

“You don’t have to make fun of me.”

“Okay, look—let’s all start over. Jesus.” Walter spins around to catch William moving his lips. “Jesus Jesus Jesus Jesus Jesus,” he says.

William crosses himself.

“Amazing. The kid’s amazing.”

“Let’s all please just stop it and eat. Can we please just do that?”

Susan says, “I’ve changed my mind about being a nun. I’m going to be a priest.”

“Oh,” William says, “that is a sacrilege.”

“William,” says Walter, “will you please pronounce the excommunications so we can all go to hell in peace?”

“I don’t even like this family,” the boy mutters.

“Perhaps you should’ve asked your Father in heaven to choose another family for you to be raised in on your trek to the cross.”

“Have mercy.”

“I don’t believe I used any profanity that last time.”

“Have mercy on us,” William mutters.

“All right!” Irene shouts. “We’re going to eat and stop all this arguing and bickering. Please, Walter.”

“You might address your displeasure to the Christ, here. Or is it the Vicar of Christ?”

“Have mercy on us.”

“I’ll be the first lady priest in the Catholic church,” Susan says, “and then I’ll get married.”

Walter says, “Don’t pay any attention to her, William. Think of her as a cross to bear.”

“Walter,” Irene says.

He stands. “Okay. Truce. No more teasing and no more bickering. We are a family, and God knows that’s hard these days. Right? We have to stick together, and sort of tolerate each other sometimes.”

They are looking at him. He touches his own face, where his mouth, his lips, are numb. His eyes feel swollen.

“And then,” Susan says, “after I’m married, I’ll become Pope.”

Walter bursts into laughter as William turns to Susan and says, “You are committing a mortal sin.”

“Susan!” Irene says, trying not to laugh.

Walter says, “Judge not, lest ye be judged, William, my boy.”

“I know what a mortal sin is,” Brad says.

“Everybody knows that,” says James.

“Look for the mote, William. When you see the gleam, look for the mote,” Walter is saying.

William mutters, “I don’t even know what that means.”

“Walter, sit down,” Irene says. “Let him alone. All of you let him alone.”

“Let’s all leave each other alone, that’s right,” Walter says. He sits down. They eat quietly for a while, and he watches them. Irene wipes mustard from Carol’s mouth, from the front of her dress. William’s eyes are glazed, and he eats furiously, not looking at anyone. He has been caught out in his pride, Walter thinks, has been shown to himself as less perfect than the glorious dream of a movie he wants to live. It dawns on Walter that his son probably prays for him, since he does not go to church. He wonders what they all think of that, of the fact that he is, by every tenet of their religion, bound for hell. This makes him laugh.

“What?” Irene says. “Tell me.”

“Nothing. I was—” He thinks for a moment. “I was thinking about this one,” pointing to Susan, “planning to be a married lady priest.”

Susan beams under his gaze.

And then he looks at William, feels sorry. “It’s okay, William,” he says. “It’s all in fun.”

The boy continues to eat.

“William.”

Irene touches Walter’s wrist.

“No,” Walter says, “the kid can accept somebody’s—a gesture—can’t he? My God—”

William crosses himself again.

Walter stands. “That’s the last time.”

“Father Boyer, at church,” William says almost defiantly, “he told us to do it whenever someone used the Lord’s name—”

Walter interrupts him. “I don’t care what Father Boyer said. I’m bigger than Father Boyer. I can beat the snot out of Father Boyer.”

“Not another word from anyone!” Irene shouts.

For a moment, no one says anything.

“Well,” Walter says, “aren’t we a happy bunch?”

James says, “What do you expect?”

“Why don’t you explain that one, James?”

The boy shrugs. He is always saying these mysteriously adult things that seem to refer slyly to other things, and then shrugging them off as if he is too tired to bother explaining them. Last year, at the age of eight, he announced to Irene that he did not believe in God. It was a crisis; Irene feared that something serious was wrong. James has since revised himself: he will grant the existence. Those are the words he used. Walter looks upon him with more than a little trepidation, because James is the one who most resembles him. More even than William, who, now, with his heart in the lap of God, is hard to place. Even Irene, for all her devoutness, finds William irritating at times.

“I am going to be a priest,” Susan says now. “All I have to do is get them to change the rules.”

“You,” says Walter, “are the saint of persistence. You know what a wolverine is?”

“Some kind of wolf?”

“The wolverine kills its prey by sheer persistence. I mean, if it decided it wanted you for dinner, you could take a plane to Seattle, the wolverine would meet you at the airport, bib on, knife and fork ready, licking his chops. Salt and pepper by the plate, oregano, parsley, a beer ...”

Susan laughs.

“Daddy’s funny,” Carol says.

“When I’m the first lady priest and married Pope, I’ll buy a wolverine and keep it as a pet,” Susan says.

“Have mercy on us,” says William.

“All right,” Walter says, “let’s drop it please, William. No more prayers, please. We’re all right. God, if there is such a goddamn thing, will forgive us, I’m sure, if we just shut up for a while.”

“Walter!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says.

They are quiet, then, for a long time. The youngest ones, Brad and James and Carol, look at him with something like amazement. He makes two more trips to the trunk of the car, not even hiding it now, and in the end he gets Carol and James to laugh at him by making faces, miming someone sliding off a bench, pretending to be terrified of his food. Susan and William laugh too, now, as he does a man unable to get a hot dog in his mouth.

“You clown,” Irene says, but she smiles.

They all laugh and talk now; the afternoon wanes that wTay: Walter tosses the football with William, and Brad and James chase a Frisbee with Susan and Carol. Irene sits on the picnic table, sipping her lemonade. It grows cooler, and others come to the field, and finally it is time to leave. Everyone works together, gathering the debris of the afternoon, and Walter packs the trunk. He is bold enough to take the bottle of Beam out of its place and drink from it—small sips, he tells Irene, offering her some. She refuses as she has always refused, but she does so with, he is sure, a smile. It strikes him that there is nothing to worry about, not a thing in the world, and he clowns with his children, makes them laugh, all the way home, Irene driving. He calls to people out the window of the car, funny things, and they are all almost hysterical with laughter. They arrive; there is the slow unwinding, getting out of the car and stretching legs and arms, and Walter begins to wrestle with Carol, bending over her, tickling her upper legs, swinging her through his own as she wriggles and laughs. Brad jumps on his back, then, and he pretends to be pulled down, rolls in the grass with the boy, and then chases him, bent over, arms dangling, like an ape’s. He is hearing the delightful keening sound of his children’s laughter in the shadows. It is getting dark. He chases Brad and James around to the back yard, and they are hiding there, just beyond the square, lighter shape of Irene’s garden. He crouches in the shadow’ of the house and makes an ape sound, whooo-hoo, whooo-hoo hah-hak-hahhah. He can hear them talking low and he thinks, Why, this is easy, this is fun. Carefully he works his way closer, seeing William and Susan running along the back fence, their silhouettes in the dusky light. Whoo-hoo, whoo-hoo. And now he makes his run at them, changes direction, follows Brad, while the others scatter. When he catches Brad, he carries him under his arm, kicking and struggling, to the house, to the screened-in back porch, where the others have gathered and are huddling, laughing in the dark. He comes stumbling up onto the porch and he has them, they are trapped with him. He puts Brad down in the mass of struggling arms and legs; he engulfs them, kneeling; he has them all in the wide embrace of his arms; he is tickling a leg here, pinching or squeezing an arm there, roaring, gorilla-like. He catches one of them trying to get away, then turns and grabs another. He’s got them all again, and they are yelling and laughing, there is light on them now, a swath of yellow light, and he looks up to see Irene’s shape in the doorway, everything speeding up again, until there is a long shout, a scream. And he stops. He stands, sees that they are cringing against the base of the porch wall, to the left of the door, cringing there and shaking, their eyes enormous, filled with tears.

“Kids?” he says.

They are sobbing, and he steps back, nearly tumbles backward out the screen door and down the stairs. “Kids?” he says.

Nobody moves.

“Hey. Kids?”

Irene steps down, bends to help William rise. They all get up slowly, looking at him with the tremendous wariness of animals at bay.

“Hey—it’s me,” he says, holding out one hand. “Kids?”

“Come on,” Irene is saying, “don’t be silly. Your daddy would never hurt you.” She makes each of them kiss him, then ushers them inside. “Susan, wall you start the bath W’ater?” The door closes on them. Walter looks at his hands and says, “God. Oh, my God.” He doesn‘t really hear himself. And in a moment Irene opens the door and steps out lightly, closing it behind her. All around, now, the insects are starting up. Irene’s voice begins softly: “We’ve been through so much, Walter, so much together—and I simply can’t do it anymore. I don’t know what to say or do anymore. I love you, but I can’t make it be enough anymore.” She kisses him on the side of the face, turns, and is gone.

YET IT TAKES MORE THAN A YEAR FOR HER FINALLY to leave him. She gives him every chance. She waits and waits for him to put it together, as he keeps saying he will. He tries for a while, in fact: he goes to a doctor, a psychologist specializing in family counseling, who tells him that he has not broken with his father, and instructs him to find some ritual way of making the break. So he goes back to Alabama to stand over his father’s grave. At first, nothing happens. He feels anger, but it is only what he expected to feel. And then there is a kind of sorrow, almost sweet, welling up in him. It makes him wince, actually take a step back from the grave, as if something had moved there. When he was seven years old, his father took him outside of the house in Montgomery and made him urinate on his mother’s roses. He tells himself, standing over the grave in Montgomery, that children have been through worse; indeed, he himself has. Yet it takes all the moisture from his mouth, remembering it. Perhaps it is the fact that it was done to him not for himself but to get at his mother—there is something so terrifying about being used that way, merely as an instrument of wounding. In any case, it has haunted him, and now, at the gravesite, he spits, he rages, he tears the grass. It all seems simply ordained. It is a role he plays, watching himself play it. It exorcises nothing.

He returns from Alabama with a sense of doom riding him like a spirit, a weight on his neck, the back of his shoulders. He visits the psychologist, who seems slightly alarmed at the effect of his journey on him. He is determined, vibrant with will, and hopelessly afraid. The psychologist wants to know what his exact thought was the first time he ever picked up a drink. Walter can’t remember that. His father never drank. He believes he wanted at first to show his freedom, like other boys. He says finally he wanted it to relax and be kind, to relieve some of the tensions that build in him. And so the psychologist begins to try to explore, with him, those tensions. They are many, but they all have the same root, and there is no use talking about childhood trauma and dreams: Walter is versed in the canon; his hopes are for something else. He can tell the psychologist the whole thing in a single sentence: he has always been paralyzed by the fear that he will repeat, with his own children, the pattern of his father’s brutality. What he wants is for the psychologist to guarantee him that this won’t happen, tell him categorically that there will be no such repetition, and of course this can’t be done. Life must be lived in the uncertainty of freedom of choice, the psychologist says. The problem is that Walter is afraid to take responsibility for himself. It is all talk, and it is all true. Walter’s father had a thing he liked to call “night dances,” in which, for the benefit of Walter, for his correction and edification, Walter’s father became a sort of dark gibbet that Walter danced beneath, held by the wrist within the small circumference, the range, as it were, of a singing swung belt whose large buckle was embossed with the head of a longhorn steer. This all took place in the basement of the house in Montgomery, before Walter was ten years old. There was no light at all in the basement, and so it was necessary for the boy to dodge blindly, and to keep from crying too loudly, so he could hear the whoosh-whoosh of the belt. Walter trembles to think of that. He tells the psychologist how his father would swing the belt calmly, without passion, like a machine, quiet in the dark. He shakes, telling it. He talks about the ancient story: the man who, in the act of trying to avoid some evil in himself, embraces it, creates it. The visits end. He is dry for about two weeks, but falters, and Irene finally does leave him.

This is what has happened to him. He is in Flagstaff, Arizona. He sits gazing at the small stained-glass windows on either side of the church, where in a few minutes he will probably be talking to a priest. God, he thinks, Flagstaff, Arizona. There is no reason for it. Perhaps he will go somewhere else, too. There is no telling where he might wind up. Irene and the children are all the way in Atlanta, Georgia, with Irene’s parents. He has not had anything to drink today, and his hands shake, so he looks at them. He wonders if he should wait to talk to a priest, if he should tell a priest anything, or just ask for some food, maybe. He wonders if maybe he shouldn’t tell the priest about the day of the picnic that he has been remembering so vividly, when Irene came out on the porch and told him she couldn’t make it be enough anymore. He wonders if he should talk about it: how he walked out to the very edge of the lawn and turned to look upon the lighted windows of the house, thinking of the people inside, whom he had named and loved and called sons, daughters, wife. How he had stood there trembling, shaking as from a terrific chill, while the dark, the night, came.