saw the crashing bike； the bobbing flashlight。 There had been a squib in the
paper the next day； no more than a space…filler really； but the owner had not
been named。 Why it had been out there in the night would always be a mystery to
them； and perhaps that was as it should be。
He went back out to the car and gave Danny his slightly melted Baby Ruth。
〃Daddy？〃
〃What； doc？〃
Danny hesitated； looking at his father's abstracted face。
〃When I was waiting for you to e back from that hotel； I had a bad dream。
Do you remember？ When I fell asleep？〃
〃Um…hm。〃
But it was no good。 Daddy's mind was someplace else； not with him。 Thinking
about the Bad Thing again。
（I dreamed that you hurt me； Daddy）
〃What was the dream； doc？〃
〃Nothing；〃 Danny said as they pulled out into the parking lot。 He put the maps
back into the glove partment。
〃You sure？〃
〃Yes。〃
Jack gave his son a faint； troubled glance； and then his mind turned to his
play。
》
NIGHT THOUGHTS
Love was over； and her man was sleeping beside her。
Her man。
She smiled a little in the darkness； his seed still trickling with slow warmth
from between her slightly parted thighs； and her smile was both rueful and
pleased； because the phrase her man summoned up a hundred feelings。 Each feeling
examined alone was a bewilderment。 Together； in this darkness floating to sleep；
they were like a distant blues tune heard in an almost deserted night club；
melancholy but pleasing。
Lovin' you baby； is just like rollin' off a log；
But if I can't be your woman； I sure ain't goin' to be your dog。
Had that been Billie Holiday？ Or someone more prosaic like Peggy Lee？ Didn't
matter。 It was low and torchy； and in the silence of her head it played
mellowly； as if issuing from one of those old…fashioned jukeboxes； a Wurlitzer；
perhaps； half an hour before closing。
Now； moving away from her consciousness； she wondered how many beds she had
slept in with this man beside her。 They had met in college and had first made
love in his apartment 。。。 that had been less than three months after her
mother drove her from the house； told her never to e back； that if she wanted
to go somewhere she could go to her father since she had been responsible for
the divorce。 That bad been in 1970。 So long ago？ A semester later they had moved
in together； had found jobs for the summer； and had kept the apartment when
their senior year began。 She remembered that bed the most clearly； a big double
that sagged in the middle。 When they made love； the rusty box spring had counted
the beats。 That fall she had finally managed to break from her mother。 Jack had
helped her。 She wants to keep beating you； Jack had said。 The more times you
phone her； the more times you crawl back begging forgiveness； the more she can
beat you with your father。 It's good for her； Wendy； because she can go on
making believe it was your fault。 But it's not good for you。 They had talked it
over again and again in that bed； that year。
（Jack sitting up with the covers pooled around his waist； a cigarette burning
between his fingers； looking her in the eye — he had a half…humorous； half…
scowling way of doing that — telling her： She told you never to e back； right？
Never to darken her door again； right？ Then why doesn't she hang up the phone
when she knows it's you？ Why does she only tell you that you can't e in if
I'm with you？ Because she thinks I might cramp her style a little bit。 She wants
to keep putting the thumbscrews right to you； baby。 You're a fool if you keep
letting her do it。 She told you never to e back； so why don't you take her at
her word？ Give it a rest。 And at last she'd seen it his way。）
It had been Jack's idea to separate for a while — to get perspective on the
relationship； he said。 She had been afraid he had bee interested in someone
else。 Later she found it wasn't so。 They were together again in the spring and
he asked her if she had been to see her father。 She had jumped as if he'd struck
her with a quirt。
How did you know that？
The Shadow knows。
Have you been spying on me？
And his impatient laughter； which had always made her feel so awkward — as if
she were eight and he was able to see her motivations more clearly than she。
You needed time； Wendy。
For what？
I guess 。。。 to see which one of us you wanted to marry。
Jack； what are you saying？
I think I'm proposing marriage。
The wedding。 Her father had been there； her mother had not been。 She
discovered she could live with that； if she had Jack。 Then Danny had e； her
fine son。
That had been the best year； the best bed。 After Danny was born； Jack had
gotten her a job typing for half a dozen English Department profs — quizzes；
exams； class syllabi； study notes； reading lists。 She ended up tvping a novel
for one of them； a novel that never got published 。。。 much to Jack's very
irreverent and very private glee。 The job was good for forty a week； and
skyrocketed all the way up to sixty during the two months she spent typing the
unsuccessful novel。 They had their first car； a five…year…old Buick with a baby
seat in the middle。 Bright； upwardly mobile young marrieds。 Danny forced a
reconciliation between her and her mother； a reconciliation that was always
tense and never happy； but a reconciliation all the same。 When she took Danny to
the house； she went without Jack。 And she didn't tell Jack that her mother
always remade Danny's diapers； frowned over his formula； could always spot the
accusatory first signs of a rash on the baby's bottom or privates。 Her mother
never said anything overtly； but the message came through anyway： the price she
had begun to pay （and maybe always would） for the reconciliation was the feeling
that she was an inadequate mother。 It was her mother's way of keeping the
thumbscrews handy。
During the days Wendy would stay home and housewife； feeding Danny his bottles
in the sunwashed kitchen of the four…room second…story apartment； playing her
records on the battered portable stereo she had had since high school。 Jack
would e home at three （or at two if he felt he could cut his last class）； and
while Danny slept he would lead her into the bedroom and fears of inadequacy
would be erased。
At night while she typed； he would do his writing and his assignments。 In
those days she sometimes came out of the bedroom where the typewriter was to
find both of them asleep on the studio couch； Jack wearing nothing but his
underpants； Danny sprawled fortably on her husband's chest with his thumb in
his mouth。 She would put Danny in his crib； then read whatever Jack had written
that night before waking him up enough to e to bed。
The best bed； the best year。
Sun gonna shine in my backyard someday 。。。
In those days； Jack's drinking had still been well in hand。 On Saturday nights
a bunch of his fellow students would drop over and there would be a case of beer
and discussions in which she seldom took part because her