Q Is for Quarry

in at intervals. The woodwork was stained dark; the walls covered with yellowing paper. In places I could see tears that revealed the wall coverings from three lifetimes down; a small floral print covered by a layer of pinstripes I that, in turn, covered blowsy bouquets of faded cabbage roses.
    Under the windows to my right, there was a mattress, neatly made up with blankets. A TV set rested on the bare floor nearby. To my left, there was an oak desk and a swivel chair. There was not much else. Six identical cardboard boxes had been stacked against the far wall. All were sealed with tape and each bore a hand-printed label that listed contents. A closet door stood open, and I could see that it had been emptied of everything except two hangers.
    I tiptoed to the kitchen door and peered in at a small wooden table and four mismatched chairs. A Pyrex percolator sat on the stove, a low blue flame under it. The clear glass showed a brew as dark as bitter-sweet chocolate. The doors to all the kitchen cabinets stood open, and many shelves were bare. Stacey was obviously in the process of wrapping and packing glassware and dishes into assorted cardboard boxes. A heavy ream of plain newsprint lay on the counter, wide sheets that must have measured three feet by four. He was clearly dismantling his house, preparing his possessions for shipping to an unknown location.
    "See anything you like, it's yours. I got no use for this stuff," Stacey said, suddenly behind me.
    I turned. "How's your back?"
    Stacey made a face. "So-so. I've been sucking down Tylenol and that helps."
    "You've been busy. Are you moving?"
    "Not exactly. Let's say, I may be going away and wanted to be prepared." Today his watch cap was navy blue. With his bleached brows and his long, weathered face, he looked like a farmer standing in a fallow field. He wore soft, stone-washed jeans, a pale blue sweatshirt, and tan sheepskin boots.
    "You own this place?"
    "Rent. I've been here for years."
    "You're organized."
    "I'm getting there. I don't want to leave a mess for someone else to clean up. Con's the one who'll come in." The unspoken phrase after I'm dead hung in the air between us.
    "Con told me they were trying new drugs." Stacey shrugged. "Clinical trials. An experimental cocktail designed for people with nothing left to lose. Percentages aren't good, but I figure, what the hell, it might help someone else. Some survive. That's what the bell curve's all about. I just think it's foolish to assume I'm one."
    Con Dolan knocked at the front door and then let himself in, appearing half a second later in the kitchen doorway. He carried a brown paper grocery bag in one hand and a smaller white bag in the other. "What are you two up to?"
    Stacey put his hands in his pockets and shrugged casually. "We're talking about running away together. She's arguing for San Francisco so we can cross the Golden Gate Bridge. I'm holding out for Vegas and topless dancing girls. We were just about to toss a coin when you came in." Stacey moved toward the stove, talking to me over his shoulder. "You want coffee? I'm out of milk."
    "Black suits me fine."
    "Con?"
    Dolan held up a white sack spotted with grease. "Doughnuts."
    "Good dang deal," Stacey said. "We'll retire to the parlor and figure out what's what."
    Con took his two bags into the living room while Stacey produced a tower of nested Styrofoam cups and poured coffee in three. He returned to the counter and picked up the pile of newsprint and a marker pen. "Grab those paper towels, if you would. I'm out of napkins and the only kind I've seen are those economy packs. Four hundred at a crack. It's ridiculous. While you're at it, you can nab that sealing tape."
    I picked up the roll of tape and my coffee cup, while Dolan returned to grab two of the kitchen chairs. Then he came back and picked up the two remaining cups of coffee, which he placed on the desktop in the living room. He reached into the larger of the two bags and hauled out three wide black three-hole binders. "I went over to the copy shop and made us each one. Murder books," he said, and passed them out. I flashed on my early days in elementary school. The only part of it I'd loved was buying school supplies: binder, lined paper, the pen-and-pencil sets. Stacey taped two sheets of blank newsprint to the wall, then unfolded a map of California and taped it to the wall as well. There was: something of the natural teacher in his manner. Both Dolan and I helped ourselves to