Mohawk

discoloring the wallpaper in the corners of Anne’s ceiling, Mrs. Grouse could think only of the worms. Each morning she went into the cellar, as far as the landing, half expecting to find a rupture in the concrete floor, a sea of night-crawlers spilling out of the walls. Water, on the other hand, was pure—it came from heaven—and she didn’t for an instant believe that anything was wrong with the roof.
    “Not our worries,” Mrs. Grouse said. “Mine. If repairs are ever needed, they will be my responsibility as the homeowner. I am
not
in the habit of shirking responsibilities.”
    Anne massaged her temples. “It isn’t a question of shirking, Mother. A new roof costs thousands of dollars. I don’t have it, and I don’t think you do either. But unless we do something soon, the house will be worthless. You won’t be able to give it away.”
    “I have no intention of giving it away. What makes you think I did?”
    “Fine,” Anne concluded, as always. Arguing with her mother was like trying to put a cat into a bag; there was always one limb left over. “Do what you want.”
    “Your father put on the best new roof money could buy,” Mrs. Grouse said. “The very best.”
    “Yes. Over ten years ago, he did. Before the ice storm this winter. Before the tree fell on it.”
    “Well, then.”
    “I’m going for a drive, Mother.”
    Dan was sitting in front of the Lincoln, its hood up, when she pulled in. He had a wrench in one hand and a sweating cocktail in the other. “They make these goddamn things so cripples can drive them, but not work on them.”
    “Don’t change the subject,” she said.
    He looked guilty, but didn’t give in easily. “Don’t even start. I’ve very nearly brained two women in the last twenty-four hours, and the regret for lost opportunities is almost more than I can bear.”
    “You might’ve called.”
    “I thought about it. Did Di?”
    “This morning. She said Milly was, what?
out of danger
.”
    “Second time this week. They’ll release her tomorrow, same as always.”
    “I wish you’d called.”
    “So do I, but you can’t count on me. You should know that.”
    Anne smiled. “I can, though. In ways you don’t know.” She nodded at the car. “Anything I can do?”
    He studied her, frowning. “Not dressed like that.Don’t you own anything ratty?” He motioned toward a TV tray on which sat an ice bucket, a bottle of whiskey, two-thirds full, a capped bottle of club soda. “Help yourself.”
    “You’re always so well prepared.”
    “Good scotch draws a crowd. Or it used to, anyhow. I guess marijuana’s the party-saver these days.”
    “Feeling out of things?”
    “Not particularly,” he said. But his attempt to be cheerful cost him too much to be convincing. “My next wife is going to be a mechanic,” he said, flipping the wrench over his shoulder. It richocheted off the motor and disappeared, rattling loudly until it fell free onto the concrete beneath the Lincoln. “How’s your mother?”
    “Still worrying about worms.”
    “Kill the soil and they’ll go away.”
    “I hate to give in.”
    “I wouldn’t.”
    “I always enjoy your advice.”
    He raised his scotch and they clinked glasses. “Thank you very much.”
    Anne unfolded a lawn chair and they sat together without saying anything. Suddenly Dan was crying. Noiselessly, the tears streamed down his face, though his expression had not changed. When she started to speak, he held up a hand and, in a few minutes, managed to stop. He didn’t bother to wipe the tracks.
    “You want to hear something good,” he said. “I’ve started dreaming again. First time in years. I’m always twenty-three or so, a real specimen. I live on the beach and all the neighbor girls have big chests and sunbathe in the nude. I’m married to Diana. Not Diana at twenty-three, but Diana at forty-four. In the dream everybody’s always asking how come I married the old lady.I never know what to tell them. I play with the neighbor girls for a while, and then, just when things are getting interesting, I feel the paralysis coming, and suddenly I can’t move. I wake up sweating, trying like a bastard.”
    When Anne said nothing, he drained the rest of his scotch and looked at her. “Now don’t you start.”
    “I won’t,” she promised.
    “Anyhow,” he said. “My next wife is going to be my own age. Twenty-three. With big tits.”
    “And here I’d hoped—”
    “Not on your life. You’re too old for