Four o'clock now, he couldn't leave until he made sure that Frank and Tommy, the enrober operators downstairs and up, would shut off all the belts and motors, heat up the kettles and enrobers, and clean out the revolving pans in the pan department.  He'd found Frank all right, who would see to things downstairs.  Now he was riding up the freight elevator in search of Tommy.   Creeping upwards slowly, he met the idle, vacant and slightly mocking gaze of one of the warehouse kids, who was lounging on the handle of his empty truck.  The platform jerked to a halt; he threw up its wooden cage front.
    "What's the matter, can't you find no empty drums?" he asked the kid.
    The kid smirked, rattled the truck past him onto the elevator and pulled down the gate.
    "Wait a second!" he commanded, through the wooden bars.  "Look, you don't waste your time riding up and down that thing with an empty fork, got it?  Next time you're up here you take some of them drums!"  The kid shrugged.
    "Ain't my job.  Mr. Sheets says bring Mary Lloyd her cartons.  I don't know nothing about no drums."
    The lift shuddered and began sinking slowly.
    "Listen, wise guy, I see you up here with an empty fork again, I'll give you Mr. Sheets!  There's drums up here, you take them!"  He dismissed him with a wave, turned, and stalked into the candy kitchen, where Leo watched, grinning.
    "Wise little punk," Leo offered.
    He gave him a sour look and surveyed the area.  Big droning exhaust fans beat in the high bank of windows, where the afternoon sun shone against whitened panes.  He took off his hat, wiped his brow on his sleeve.
    "Here today, gone tomorrow, punks like that.  Seen Tommy anywheres?"
    "Here a minute ago."
    He put his hat back on.  "He's supposed to be with his machines."  Mixers were grinding and steam fittings hissing as he walked past the rows of cooking kettles with their smells of marshmallow, caramel and mint, stepped carefully over the wet floor that two of Leo's men were washing down, then out the door of the windowed partition to enrober Number Two.  The women barely noticed him, busy at the far end of the feed belt lining up centers; Mendez, at the other end, was crouched down fussing with the bottomer and looked up gratefully as he approached:  "Hey, Mr. Louie, I think I got some trouble here?"
    He crouched down beside him:  "What kind of trouble?"
    "There's some blooming on the bottoms."
    "Check your timing on the belts?"
    "Just like we set them earlier."
    "What about blowers, any variation there?"
    "Not that I can see, Mr. Louie.  Must be this thing here, I figure, this cooling belt here.  Running too thick just after lunch, so Mr. Tommy, he adjusted it.  Must be too warm now."
    "Don't you fool with it.  Let me see the candy first."  He stood up and selected a piece from the belt, just before it went under the enrober.  The chocolate on the bottom was soft and sticky, not even set up.
    "So where the hell is Tommy now?"   He crushed the candy in his fingers and tossed it into the scrap box.
     Mendez stood up, and shrugged:  "He go talk to Mary Lloyd.  Ten, fifteen minutes maybe."
    He clenched his jaw.  "Wait a minute."  He walked down to the other end and asked the women:  "They just bring these centers over?"  They had.  He reached up and took one off the tall stack of boards, which the oldest woman, Mrs. Dawson, was shaking into the feeder.  The center was soft; he tossed it aside.
 He went over to the mogul department, got hold of Dave Case, bawled out the kid who pulled this fresh dolly of boards out of the holding room, got a dolly of hardened centers to replace them and sent the others back; then went into the refrigerated packaging department on the trail of Tommy.  Headaches.
 He looked around--no Tommy--as he marched up the aisle along the conveyer where a score of women were operating the weighing, boxing and wrapping equipment, followed by others who packed the boxes into cartons and the cartons onto skids.  Mary Lloyd was at her desk.
    "Tommy was in here, last fifteen minutes or so?"
    She was busy with a sheaf of invoices:  "Tommy?  No.  Couple hours ago, maybe.  Why, what's he up to now?"
    "Didn't come in and speak to you about nothing?"
    "No, I haven't seen Tommy!  I see him, I'll tell him you were looking.  Now let me finish this stuff, will you, please?"
    One of her women came over;  "Mary Lloyd. . . ?"
    "Ahh!"  He crossed the room and started down the opposite aisle, where a second row of women were sorting and packaging.  Then he noticed:  that little high school stuff, new here, cute little ass:  he didn't see her on the line.
    Down by the door that led to the freight elevator was an alcove full of discarded equipment; stacks of boards and finished skids of cartons hid it from view.  He went over and stood there watching for a second:  "Tommy!"  The women at the end of the line turned to look.  "C'mere.  C'mon out here.  I want to talk to you."
 The two of them jumped up, crushed out their cigarettes; the girl straightened her skirt, looking embarrassed; Tommy looked smart and belligerent.
    He beckoned angrily, wheeled and pushed open the insulated door:  out into the glow, heat, noise and smells of his own department.  "Look you," he said to Tommy, who came out after him, "how about you taking care of that stuff on your own time?  I catch you fooling around like that again, I don't care you're union boss, what the hell you are, you're going to get the sack.  Goddamit, you get paid to stay with them machines; and goddamit, you stay!"  He bulged his eyes, poking his forefinger at Tommy's chest.  "You're in there feeling up that little twat, you got blooming out here on Number Two and Mendez don't know nothing."
    "Aw, get off my ass."  Tommy walked away.
    He stepped after him and turned him by the shoulder.
    "Now, watch it, Louie.  Don't try pushing me around.  I do my job and you know it.  Now, you want to report me, go ahead.  But I got a couple of stories of my own."
    Tommy was young and wiry, with a narrow, hard face and a reputation with a knife--besides being shop steward.
    "Way I see it," Tommy said, with cold, sly eyes and a sneering expression, "I'm entitled to a little break.  Mendez needed me, I told him where I was.  Now there's some blooming over there, okay, I'm going to take care of it.  But you're not riding me, Louie."
    Little stars of rage burst in his veins, but he controlled himself, opening and closing his fists, working his jaw.  Any kind of union stink, he'd have Manville to answer to.  Besides, Tommy was his best operator:  he couldn't risk a showdown over nothing dumb like this.  Just then the freight elevator came to a halt:  they had to make way for the truck boy, who pulled his skid of cartons past.
    "Okay, okay, so you can take a break," he said flatly.  "But look:  I catch you pulling that stuff again and you're in trouble.  Anything goes wrong on them machines and you're the one responsible.  So let's just leave it at that, huh?  Now see you shut down and heat up tonight, regular time, and no more slip-ups.  I'm starting home."
    He turned away with that, stepped back onto the elevator, slammed down the gate and jerked the cable.  Tommy held his eyes for a minute, then hiked his belt and headed off towards the machines.  Sinking from sight, he took his hat off, ran his hand over his face.  Overhead the white sky glared down through iron girders and slats.  Shakily, he lit a cigarette.
    Downstairs in the supervisors' head, he was shaving.  Work day done, he put its headaches out of mind, already thinking of the night ahead.  They'd have some drinks in Nick's maybe, then go dancing.  He'd suggest they go back to her place. He smiled and chuckled, holding the razor.  Then sighed, and finished up, with careful strokes around his mustache.
    "Well, looky here," Ralph Sheets said, closing the door on factory noises.  "Look at him all shaved and prettied up."
    He paid no mind, wiping his face with a towel and rummaging in his locker for the clean undershirt, which he pulled on over his head.  Sheets slammed the stall door and called out, as he was pissing, "Got a little action tonight, huh?"  The toilet flushed and he came out, fixing his fly.  "Where the hell you keep running into it, anyhow?  You got a special place you go?"  He came to the sink to wash his hands, leering shrewdly through his glasses.  "I mean, I could use a little fun on the side myself, y'know."
    Buttoning up his sport shirt, tucking it in, he looked up at the guy:  "You?  C'mon now, you're supposed to be watching your health.   You're in no kind of shape to go pulling that stuff, and you know it."  He motioned him aside and leaned in front of the mirror, combed his hair.  "Besides, your old lady'd kill you."
    Ralph winced and squirmed, drawing himself up:  "That ain't fair, goddamit."  He took his glasses off, scowling.  "That's my lookout, ain't it?  Well, I can handle that all right--as good as you."  He wiped his glasses on his shirt, defensive and brooding, then hooked them back over his ears.  "Look, Louie," he tried again, narrowing his eyes and edging closer:  "How about this bar down here, Germantown and Chelton?  How about, you know, maybe one night next week, we could--"
    "Can't help you, Ralph."
    "Well, shit, you want to be that way about it.  I ain't asking any favors.  You don't have to get all uppity, just cause you got yourself some hot deal out there."
    "No offense.  Just forget it, willya?  It's for your own good."
    The door swung open and Dave Case came in, "Hey, Louie!  What's this big beef you got with Tommy all about?  Man, you oughta hear him up there; he's cussing you out right and left."
    "Ahh, him.  You know him.  He's got trouble up there on Number Two and I catch him in Mary Lloyd's fooling round some little twat.  So I chewed him out, that's all.  He'll get over it."
    Dave raised his eyebrows and nodded, snorting:  "You hope.  Didn't sound that way to me."  Then he noticed the clothes and shook his wrist, impressed.  "Look out!"--he winked at Ralph--"Gramps is on the loose again!"
    "Sure, he's a big shot, all his broads."
    "Must be takin' them vitamins, huh?  How about it, Lou?  What's your secret?"
    He stashed the shaving kit away, along with his toothbrush and toothpaste, slammed his locker, twirled the combination dial, grabbed his hat down from above, and pushing by Dave, went out the door with a disgusted wave:  "See you Monday!"  He heard their laughter from the hall, as he put his hat on, and smiled.  Sorry for Sheets, of course, but the guy was dumb.  He checked his watch.  Next stop, across the hall, was Anna Maye's.  He found her in the sample room.
    "Well, you're certainly all dressed up!" she exclaimed; the woman gluing samples with her glanced up too, then back down, pretending not to listen.  Putting her work aside, wiping her hands on her apron, Anna Maye came closer:  "Leaving early or something?"
    "Yeah, yeah.  I can't talk.  Got to hurry.  Planning something special for the wife tonight.  What I was wondering, you got a box of the assorted chocolates?  You know, something special."
    She regarded him evenly for a moment:  "Well, that's very thoughtful, Louie.  She'll like that."
    "Yeah, well, I want to surprise her," he said, trying to sound casual, but feeling sheepish and annoyed.
    She smiled and turned, and reaching up to a shelf, lifted down a box.  "I can't just let you have this for free, you know."  She placed it on the counter.  "No,"--she held up her hand and shook her head, friendly, but firm--"no arguments.  You're entitled to a thirty per cent discount, just like everybody else."
    He looked into her round, soft face with its broad nose and heavy brows and those sad, but kindly eyes that kept insisting on the best in you; and, grudgingly, he paid her--three dollars.
    "Can't nobody argue with you."
    "Wait.  You want it wrapped, don't you?"  She opened a drawer in the counter and pulled out some gift paper.  Then she was concentrating, trying to remember: 
    "It's not your anniversary, is it?"
    "Naw.  Like I said.  A surprise."
    "You didn't mention it this morning."
    "Just thought of it, you know?"  He glanced out the door at the women working, then at his watch.  She folded the ends of the paper close to the box, taped them, turned the box over, took some ribbon from the drawer, wound it around, crossed it over; had him hold his finger on it, while she tied a fancy bow.
    "Well, it's nice.  You should think of things like that more often.  I mean flowers and magazines, things like that.  Surprises can mean a great deal, especially when you're feeling low."
    "Sure, sure, I know."
    She brightened up:  "Well, there you are."  And handed him the package.  "Tell me Monday how she liked it."

    Just outside Maple Shade, an hour later, he turned off Route 73 into the East Gate Shopping Mall.  The sun was lower, but still hot, glinting off of acres of parked cars.  He made his way down to the Acme Market, at the far end, hoping to find her waiting out front, but felt more bitterly assured than surprised as he drove past and found that she wasn't.  She got off at six and it was six-twenty now; she probably got fed up and took a bus home.  He found a space, anyway, parked.  He rolled his window up, put the candy out of the sun, under the dash, shoved across the seat and got out the other side; rolled that window up too and locked the door.  He'd have a look at least. Stiffly, he crossed the baking asphalt, twisting his shoulders to loosen the shirt from his back, dodged between cars starting from the pick-up lane, brushed past people coming, going, on through the electric doors and into the market, instantly relieved, gratified, by the cooler, drier air, and distracted by the activity, displays, colors and size of the place.  Everyone was crowded, rushing or waiting; a battery of cash registers dinged and chattered.  He searched around, half-dazed for a minute, before he finally spotted her.  She was sitting in a line of chairs along the big plate-glass window, flirting with some young jerk who looked like he worked here--crew cut, pimples, wore a gray coat had a name badge on it.  Aside from the stab of impatience he felt at this--the two of them familiar and involved, and the kid acting smart like he thought he was making time--the sight of her moved him.  She'd waited; it'd be all right.  "'Scuse me," he said, blocking the path of an old woman struggling with a shopping cart.  Irma leaned back and recrossed her plump legs, tweaking her cigarette in an upright ashtray and idly waggling her foot.  She glanced his way, but didn't see him; laughed at something the kid was saying.
    He came nearer.
    "--pullin' crazy stunts like that all the time, these guys.  They're a crazy bunch.  Another time, we had this party.  We went down to the shore, see, down Atlantic City; we got us two motel rooms, then we hear about this dance, so we go there and pick up a couple girls, bring 'em back to the room, and we've got this case of scotch, so we start boozin' it up and dancin' and all that; we're gonna keep it up all night, y'know?  Well, pretty soon we're plastered; one of the girls is sick and the other's whinin' about goin' home, when all of a sudden Auggie gets this notion he's just gotta ride a roller coaster, no matter if it's all shut down or not.  It's like two or three in the morning, see?  Well, then the chicks decide they really wanta try that too, so we all go down there where they got these rides--"
    "Hope I'm not breaking in on nothing."  He tilted his hat back and folded his arms.
 Irma turned around surprised; then mocking:  "Well, look who's finally here!"  The kid gave him a once over.  She explained:  "Danny, this is Louie.  Louie, Danny...Danny's been a peach, sitting here with me, keeping me from getting bored...What held you up, anyhow?  I've been waiting here for half an hour!"  She stubbed her cigarette out.
    "Aw, I had trouble at the plant, and then the traffic.  But I ain't all that late either.  I said six."
    "You're lucky I waited." 
    "Yeah, lucky I decided to come on in here for a looksee, too, isn't it?  You were gonna wait outside, remember?  How was I supposed to know you'd be in here?"
 Danny Boy stood up (his name badge said "Curley"):  "Look, Irma, I'll tell you the rest of it some other time, okay?  I mean, I better be takin' off, myself.  I got a heavy date and there's still some stuff I gotta do round here.  So--you have yourself a good time, huh?"
    "Oh, I'm not worried about that," she said, and grinned, glancing from Danny back to him.
    "Yeah.  Well, I'll see ya then."
    "Um-hm.  So long, now."  She smiled.
    He sauntered off, snapping his fingers and tossing his head.
    "What's he?  A bag boy?"
    "He happens to be a stock clerk.  And he's a darn nice kid too, so don't start making any cracks."
    "Looks like a jerk to me."
    She glared:  "He's a friend of mine, Louie.  And he's got a considerable amount on the ball, too, if you'd like to know.  He's just got out of the Marines, and now he plans to finish up night school and maybe even go to college.  So maybe he's a more worthwhile person than you'd think."
    She stood up and straightened her skirt, and slung her handbag over her shoulder:
    "That's what burns me up.  I like people, all kinds of people, but you just think they're trash.  You don't have a good word for anybody, Louie.  Like my girlfriend, Barbara, for instance.  She's a 'jerk' too, isn't she?  So who cares if you hurt her feelings?"
    "Now, wait.  Who injected her into the conversation?"
    "I did."
    "Well, come off it, willya?"  He glanced behind him as another kid pushed by a train of carts and slammed them, clattering, into a row of empties.  "Are we going to sit here talking about Barbara all night, or are we going to get out of here?...Well, c'mon!"  He took her arm, but she held back and shook his hand off, then started for the door herself.  He caught up; they walked in silence together out the electric doors.  Then she stopped.
    "Well, where's the car?"
    She gazed around, fingering her neck.
    "Over there."
    Down the curb, between cars, they started across the lot, her handbag bumping between them and her high heels clacking, scraping.
    "Hey, look.  Come on, now, cut this stuff out, willya?  What the hell's eating you, anyhow?"
    "I don't care to talk about it, Louie."  She kept walking straight ahead, without looking at him.  "I've just been doing some thinking, that's all."
    He blinked and grimaced, scowling.
    They came to his car; he unlocked the passenger's door.
    "Phew!"  It's like an oven in there!" she complained.
    He left her rolling down the window and went around to the driver's door, which wasn't locked, got in, slammed it, and rolled down the window.  "C'mon, it won't be that bad once we get moving."  He held his hands on the wheel, already sweating.  She pushed her bag across, stepped in, plumped down heavily, and slammed the door.  Then as she squirmed around, getting settled, saw the package.
    "Hey! What's that?"
    "Something I got you."
    "Well!"  She cocked her head and considered him uncertainly, then broke into a grin.
    "Okay," he said wearily.  He bent down and handed her the box.
    "I just can't understand you sometimes."
   "Well, go ahead and open it."
   "Okay.  I am."  She gave him a look, and started scrabbling at the ribbon, prying it off the corners, tearing the wrapping away, until the golden script of "Manville's Assorted Chocolates" was exposed on the glossy pink lid.  She glanced up, with bright, eager eyes.
    "That's our best.  Five bucks a box."
    She chuckled softly and bit her lip, raising the lid.  "Um, will you look at these!"     Tentatively, she selected a chocolate from its paper cup, bit into it, chewed and swallowed, and turned to him with a look of smug delight.  "Maple cream!"  she said, finishing off the remainder, then licking her fingers.  She put the box up on the dash and scrunched over beside him, smacking her lips, reaching her arms around his neck and offering her mouth.  He bent his head back and kissed her roughly, almost vengefully, groping for her thighs with his pinned right arm and reaching around and pulling her closer with his left.  She held back at first, but then her lips were moving eagerly under his, tasting of lipstick and chocolate, and her arms were tightening around his neck.  The sense of well-being spread through him, soothing all the rawness.  "Hey...hey...come on, now.  Enough."  She pushed herself free and glanced around.  "We're in a parking lot, remember?"  She shoved back across the seat and straightened her skirt.  But her face was flushed, her eyes still feverish and soft, as she turned to look at him again.
    He looked back; then leaned forward and started the car, smiling a slow, expansive smile.  She didn't speak; just took the candy off the dash and held it in her lap, frowning to herself and staring out the window.

    He hadn't been mixed up in anything like this, not since the bad times, years back.  Out all night, home drunk, screwing up at work; he'd almost lost everything.  Paula'd moved out with the kids and gone to see a lawyer.  The shock of that had wised him up.  He had a choice to make.  He loved his family; they were his and all that mattered.  The women didn't matter.  He woke up beside this one one day, heard her kids screaming in the next room, and felt plain lost and scared.  He had to get home and make it up.  His family was his life; and had to cut out all the craziness, just like a rotten arm.  And he did, he was left scarred-like, and a little crippled even, but living, healthy.  He and Paula made it up.  Life got better for a while.  He got promoted.  His boys grew up and left, and quit siding against him (especially Frank).  Paula'd softened towards him too.  They'd found a special day school for Josie.  Paula was working again, and between that and not having the boys to support, it looked like they could get a house.  So the idea of a house--someplace nice for Josie, someplace out of the city--the more they talked and dreamed, and searched the papers, and went out driving weekends:  it brought a kind of youthfulness back in their marriage, a sense of pride and common purpose, like they were starting over fresh.
    But no sooner had they found a place, sold the old, and packed up and moved, than Paula started getting sick.  He'd thought it was just the strain of the move and if she took it easy, it'd clear up.  But it was more than that.  He hadn't wanted to take her to the doctor's, but after one bout of throwing up and stomach pains, he panicked and called the hospital.  And, grimly, he'd prepared himself--operations, bills, convalescence, medicines--but what they told him caught him worse than unawares.  Cancer, stomach cancer.  Operated on her, twice; then said the operations did no good; and even them, the doctors, they were helpless.  She'd have nine months more, maybe--like that--towards the early fall, they said, like they were taking about her being pregnant or something.  And there was nothing anyone could do, except to keep her comfortable, of course, and in a minimum of pain.  And maybe try to carry on with life, as normal as they could.
    Four months now, they'd lived like that:  knowing, not knowing, and only having the doctors' word.  And if she'd really been sick--in bed, in pain--maybe that'd make some sense.  But here she was puttering around the house, cleaning and gardening and looking after Josie.  Sure, she'd lost some weight; she was weaker, paler than usual, maybe; but she wasn't sick in bed.  The medicines were working fine; she needed rest, that's all.  But then he'd curse himself:  who was he kidding?  Time was slipping past, and life, and him unequal to it somehow, like he should hold it back or make it count some special way--and yet he couldn't.  He found himself resenting her:  choked and dragged down by her, personally.  He had to shut himself against her pains, her needs.  He blamed her that she couldn't make it easier.  For always he'd relied on her.  She was the strong one.  And when he'd hit the bottom, she was there, forgiving, demanding, helping him through it.  But now her spirit was as broken and despairing as his own, and he had no one, nothing else to turn to.
    They'd told the kids, of course; she did.  Dom and Victor each made special visits; Frank and Nancy stopped down when they could.  But they weren't any help.  They kept after him, accusingly:  weren't there better doctors?  shouldn't she have a nurse?  what about radiology or something?  wasn't there something they could do?  And how could he tell them:  pay the doctors, pray, cut your arm off, love till your heart bursts:  none of it did any good?  They weren't listening, not to him.  Blaming him was their excuse.  There were trembling red-faced blow-ups, but these just put him further in the wrong.  So he sank back, watched them take over, watched them relax and calm her.  And grudged them.  What did they know?  Hadn't they gone off and got their own lives now?  Hadn't they deserted her?  What were they coming back for now, except her blessing that they were free to go?  He and Josie were the ones that needed her, not them; and when each of them left, and after the glow of their visits faded, Paula seemed even more defeated and despondent.
    He couldn't take it anymore.  He couldn't bear to be around her.  Work was a relief, and afterwards he'd stop off for a drink, or go down to the old neighborhood and maybe try to find a game:  anything to keep his mind off things.  Sometimes he called home; sometimes not.  He wouldn't be accounted for.  But she didn't fight him either, like she used to; she didn't stand up to him and bawl him out.  All she'd do is put on these tired, hurt silences, yearning at him, pleading, following him around, bumping against him, filling him with strangling hopeless rage that only drove him out again:  to play with Josie, go on errands, work the yard, paint the house, anything to get away. 
    But now that he'd found Irma, he felt confident again, and shrewd.  Irma changed the tone of everything; even her memory hovering before him, memory of her silkiness and youth, the eagerness of her desire.  For wasn't he sufficient afterall, wasn't he resourceful and determined:  a vigorous, hard-working, seasoned older man, who knew the angles, who deserved respect?  And didn't it take something special to make it with a piece like her? That she had done those things with him, and that she'd trusted him and understood and shared his need to break away and find release:  it promised him another life--a different life--like he was thirty again, and everything was possible and just within his grasp.  At home, surrounded by his usual life, speaking, spoken to, watching t.v., lying open-eyed in bed at night:  he felt triumphantly immune; elated by this newfound ease, this gift of comfort where there should be pain.  He could listen to, watch, or touch Paula even, without the helplessness returning.  He was like a visitor suddenly, like his sons, free to sympathize and act concerned, but not confined or burdened by it anymore.  Because she was the one dying, not him; and he had plenty left ahead of him:  times like he'd had with Irma, things he'd been missing out on now for years because of her, because he'd been afraid of losing her.

    They were eating at the Shang Gree La, in downtown Camden.  She'd been acting funny all evening, not just playing smart like she'd been on the phone that first time--she'd gotten over that, even though it took him several calls and she'd kept putting him off until he got good and worked up--but really moody and disdainful; and the friendlier he tried to be, the more good natured, the more she clammed up on him, thinking her own thoughts.
    "Louie, just tell me something, will you?"
    "Sure," he said, shoveling in a forkful of chow mein, "anything you want to know."
 She leaned forward, breasts stretching her blouse, chin on her palm, one eyebrow raised:  "What's your wife think of all this?"
    He swallowed his mouthful and held her eyes.
    "My wife?"
    "You're not divorced."
    "What are you talking about?"  He cleaned his gums.
    "There's no use being cute about it, Louie.  I don't like liars."
    "Aw, c'mon off it, willya?  Here, have some more of this egg stuff."
    "Don't try to change the subject."  She sat back squarely, cold-eyed and severe.
    He put his fork down.  "What do you want?  I told you.  I been married twice.  I got four kids and my wife remarried and she's living down in South Philly someplace and I don't even speak to her no more."
    "Sure, and you're living with your sister and your mother now, aren't you?  And they get all upset if you aren't in by midnight, huh?"
    "Yeah, that's right.  So what"  He was getting pissed:  their food was going to waste--special, expensive food--and their evening too, if she didn't cut it out.  What did she want to go pull this kind of shit for, anyhow?
    "So you're in the Moorestown phone book, that's what."  She looked at him firmly.  "And I called your house last night--"
    "You what?"
    "--and the woman who answered said she was Mrs. Miscello, and when I asked her could I speak to her son, please? she said, which one? and I said Louie, and you know what she said then?"
    He stared, trying to make sense of it:  how she could sit there so positive and calm, with her solemn little smirk, like someone safely sealed behind a wall of glass.  He concentrated hard, then shut his eyes and bowed his head, clamp-jawed, gripping the edge of his seat, fighting back surges of disbelief and rage, and feeling dull and empty too, his whole life swerving--slowly, hugely--out of his control.  Paula knew; okay, he'd face that later.  What mattered now was Irma.  She had to quit accusing him; he wasn't just some low-down chiseling bum.  She had to understand:  he needed her.  He meant no harm to her or anyone.  He'd been stuck, that's all; she'd given him the chance to be himself again.  He had to make her understand:  the cost was his, not hers, and she was worth it to him--she had to be.  She had to quit this crap and show concern, and be as warm and sensitive and generous as she'd been before.
   He looked up fully, pleading:  "Okay, sure.  But listen to me..."
    "I'm listening, Louie."
    "My wife and me, we aren't divorced--okay.  But that's not the point..."  He faltered, groping, realizing suddenly he couldn't tell the truth, not all of it.  "We're separated, understand?  Well, not exactly separated, either; what I mean, we're still living together, but I'm out looking for another place, and soon as I find it I'm getting out.  So what's the difference?  Her and me, we're finished; that's all...it's nothing.  But, see, you--you and me--this:  that's what matters, right?  I mean, we got something special.  We can talk, we understand each other.  I never met someone like you before, and now I have, I tell you, it's a whole new world.  I know what I'm doing, I know what I like; and all that other shit--and you know what I mean, cause you've been through it too--that's something...that's not me, that's some other guy.  I'm me, Louie Miscello.  I got my life to lead, same as you.  No ties, no claims, doing what I want do, living any way I wanta live.  Cause I've earned it.  No one's telling me different.  Half my life I played their games, and what did I get out of it?  I got nothing.  Nothing, understand?  Fifty-six, my kids looking down on me. My wife blaming me:  I'm selfish.  Everything I ever done is nothing in their eyes.  I'm nothing.  Well, screw 'em.  I don't have to take that kind of crap.  You made me realize that.  Life don't gotta be a prison.  We got good times; do anything we want to do.  Cause I'm being good to me from now on, and I got no more time to waste.  I want to be with you, I'll be with you; I want to party, have my kicks:  that's what I'll do--and I don't care she knows or not, see?  She's got nothing to do with it."
 She kept staring at her plate, shaking her head:  "It's no good, Louie."
 "What do you mean, 'no good'?"  He grabbed the table and thrust his face forward.  "Wait a minute.  Don't you see?  I'm saying..."
    "I know what you're saying.  Will you listen to me for a minute please?  I don't want to get involved--it's as simple as that.  Now don't get excited, just listen.  I've thought this out.  I don't care you're married, or divorced, or getting divorced, or whatever it is:  all I know is, I'm not getting mixed up in it.  I don't need that kind of trouble.  I like you, sure.  We had our fun a couple weeks ago.  But don't try to make that into something it isn't.  Like I told you before, I'm perfectly happy with my life as is.  I don't want to worry; I don't want to hurt anybody.  I've got no time for lies and games.  I'm a very simple, straight-forward person, and what I'm telling you, I'm telling you for your own good.  I'm not your answer.  Whatever it is you need, I don't know, but you're just going to have to look for it someplace else."
    "Hold it, will you?  Who said anything about getting involved?"  Something was narrowing and tightening in him.  He saw the picture now, leading him on, waiting  until the middle of the meal.  She wasn't gonna get away with it.  He felt vivid and alert.  Let her talk, let her go ahead and pull her stuff. 
    "Listen, I'm no fool.  I'm just not gonna be the other woman, okay?  I don't want you thinking about me that way.  I don't want you calling me up every time you feel lonely.  It's not my part to take her place or help you live with it, or anything like that.  I've been through all of this before, and I'm not getting forced into it again.  I'm not your special party-girl.  You don't have rights over me.  I mean, I know you have your troubles, and I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do.  I just don't want to be bothered with you."
    "Who says I'm gonna bother you?  You're talking to me--I'm Louie, remember?  I'm not one of these half-ass jerks out here.  I'm not some green kid.  I don't want to force you into nothing.  All I'm saying, we can have some fun.  You're worried about my wife, forget it, I'll take care of that.  You need an older guy like me to understand you.  You been messing around with the wrong kind of folks, is all.  These jerks out here can't do nothing; sitting in that apartment's not doing any good.  So why don't you....Look, I ain't gonna mess you up.  I want to take you places, do things for you.  I was even thinking, y'know, like one of these weekends we could go to New York or something.  You know, do it up--big hotel, nightclubs, see a show or something like that.  I'm no cheapskate.  You got nothing to worry about with me.  I mean, c'mon now, we got good times ahead of us.  No reason to get all head up.  Give it a chance, willya?"
    She wasn't buying any.  She just sat there, squirming, looking down, shaking her head, like this was all some bad mistake.  She'd never come out here, never done those things with him before, never led him on.  Stubbornly avoiding his stare, she scowled off across the room.  Those clamped lips, set features, that stylish hairdo, the motion of her hand as she rubbed her throat:  all of her was hateful to him suddenly.  He had to make her feel him, be aware.  Overturn the table, smash things, grab her.  Waken fear in that smug little, cheap indifference.  Make her realize.
    "Well, c'mon!" he pressed, more dangerously.  "Will you?" 
    She busied herself lighting a cigarette.  Around them people ate and murmured. Then, exhaling thoughtfully, she met his eyes with a determined, steady flatness:  "There's no point arguing about it.  You're obviously not the kind of person I thought you were, and I'm not what you're looking for either.  So let's just drop it."
    He looked at her for a long moment, blood pounding.  "That's the way you want it."

    Vaguely, he was heading for New York, past Mount Holly, Bordentown and Trenton, past Fort Dix.  Black, flat farmland stretched out all around him, and heat lightening flickered, lighting up the clouds.  The motor hummed evenly, and the wind whipped at him hot and pungent.  He wasn't pushing now, just driving, keeping under sixty, hardly interested in it even, keeping to the truck lane, so cars and clusters of cars came steadily to overtake him, drawing past or snapping past.
 The fear was past, defeat was past, the rage, disgust: everything connected with it, as if that all had happened long ago and now lay far behind him.  Not just Irma: everything, his wife, job, daughter, sons, his home: all of that was ruined, finished.  He was finished.  Nothing left to do but keep on driving, keep moving, as if the motion could suspend him like the holding of a breath, and he was through with caring, feeling, making any effort now but this.
    He reached down for the pint beside him, and steering with one hand, took one deep swig and then another.  Nothing, then the warmth was spreading, and in its thickening, velvet lull, he thought of Paula, sure and warm, and how her trust had calmed him, how her life lay open, in his hands, all of it there and up to him to tender and protect, and how this opened him up too, and how he'd be the man his old man hadn't been; he'd give his family things he'd never had, a place in life, a house, good education.   As sure as he was anything, as natural as his strength, they'd keep on making steady progress, each step forward more to build on, more to gain, and never any losses, nothing that could break them, nothing that could spoil.
    He gave it up.  He couldn't drive.  He had to piss; he needed gas.  The speed, the traffic, headlights, taillights: the pressure of it stifled him.  He wanted to pull over and get off.  Let the rest of them go on, those faceless drivers, numberless, perpetual.  All he wanted now was stillness, some deserted pocket in the blackness of this night, away from cars and lights and houses, somewhere he could drink in peace.
    A sign for food and fuel flashed by.  He saw the glow, the arc-lit grounds, and slowing down he took the turn-off, surprised to find the parking lot was full, the traffic massed together here and scattered out in double rows, people eating, sleeping, smoking, people coming, people going, groups of guys, girls, couples, families, license plates from everywhere.  It wasn't what he wanted, so he turned out of the lot and cruised on past the restaurant, past the lines for gas, pulled around in back, where the tractor trailers and the semis rested darkly in the shadows.  Threading his way farther back than them even, he parked along the fence, cut his motor, lights.  For a moment, he went blank.  Then roused himself: unlatched the door, climbed out; head hung, feet scraping, went around the car and pissed, came back, slumped, grabbed the bottle, sucked and gulped at it until he gasped for breath.
    But even here, each swallow numbing him against all memory, need or care, and set loose drifting down a cloudy darkness where he knew no shape or name, even here some stray thought would betray him.  Suddenly he'd come alive to everything: Irma, doing that to him!  She wasn't gonna get away with that.  And then he'd writhe and shift:  don't think.  And drink again.  And Paula, no.  And then the aching bitterness would come--that he was lost and no one cared--and then he'd turn against himself: why should they?  He was rotten; all he'd ever done was cause them harm.  Except he knew he wasn't rotten.  Something in him still deserved.  Forget it.  He finished off the bottle, tossed it, heard it smash.  But just as he was nodding, slipping, letting all things go, and as the welcome grip of sleep took hold and drew him downwards with its sure enclosing, like something glimpsed, or dreamed, he saw his daughter standing straight and whole, as lovely as a bride, and she was calling, reaching out; her words were tender, beautiful, and there was comprehending pity in her eyes.