The staked Goat

polyure-thaned. I had friends in Boston who had undertaken similar projects on one-bedroom condos. Redoing an entire townhouse would register near the top of the sweat-equitv scale.
    The bathroom contained a large tub with raised claw feet and a massage-style showerhead. Brass rings on the wall held dark blue towels, contrasting nicely with the light blue tiles and paint. A home that would be a pleasure to live in.
    I was dressed and downstairs by twelve-thirty. Larry and Dale were sitting at a table in the dining room, which was just through the archway I’d seen on my way into the house. Larry, back from the bookstore, had changed to a continental-style, gray pinstriped suit, and was laconically turning the pages of a magazine. Dale was in the trov gray suit, a small bulge of shir, above the belt buckle. The table served.
    ”We can offer smoked breast of chicken with lettuce and tomatoes on homemade bread,” said Dale rising and smiling broadly.
    “Sounds terrific,” I said. He moved quickly into the kitchen ignoring my proffered help.
    I sat down across from Larry. It was silent for an awkward twenty seconds.
    ”The house looks super,” I said. ”You must have poured a lot of time into it.”
    Larry gave an ironic smile and held his place with a finger. ”Look,” he said, ”I’m not being rude, but I just don’t think you and I mix well. The Better Homes and Gardens routine is Dale’s bag, not mine. He’ll really appreciate the compliments, honest. Me, I just don’t feel much like talking, O.K.?”
    ”O.K.” I said. He returned to his magazine. Dale appeared a long two minutes later with a tray of sandwiches and a magnum of white wine.
    ”I think you’ll like the chicken,” he said. ”A farmer friend of ours raises and smokes them himself.” He hefted the wine. ”I also think we all could use a brace for this afternoon.”
    ”This house is magnificent, Dale,” I said as I reached and took half a sandwich.
    ”Oh, thank you,” he said, pouring my wine. ”It was a ton of work. We should have time for a little tour after lunch.”
    We ate in one-sided silence, Larry’s only contribution being, ”Good wine, Dale.” Dale beamed and continued the I-love-Pittsburgh theme begun on our ride in from the airport. I was mildly interested in the information and deeply grateful for his filling the air.
    Larry insisted on clearing the table so that Dale could show me the house. The living room was tasteful in old rose and powder blue, with a matching-background Oriental rug and a functioning fireplace with Italian cherub tile. Beyond the dining room and alongside the kitchen was a back parlor with a baby grand piano and a southeastern exposure. The rear wall was glass, overlooking a twenty-by-twenty back garden. Many plants, all cacti in pots, hung by monofilament inside the glass. Dale explained that the piano couldn’t tolerate a lot of humidity, so the interior flora selections thus were limited.
    We skipped the basement (”a small wine cellar, some herbs and mushrooms under grow fights”) and took in the second story. The master bedroom was a macro-version of the guestroom and occupied the front half of the floor, with a private bath and a huge walk-in closet under an eave. We climbed an attic pull-down ladder in the closet and up through a hatchway. The snow shook down deeper onto a redwood deck.
    ”I got the idea from two friends in New York. You don’t see many roof decks in Pittsburgh, but there’s nothing better for really enjoying the sun without all the sand and catcalls—” he broke off.
    ”I agree with you,” I said. ”Sundecks have it all over the beach.”
    He followed me back down the ladder, securing the hatchway above him.
    I picked up my coat and we went downstairs. The three of us saddled up and, insufficiently braced by the wine, crossed over to Martha’s house.
    Carol let us in. She and Martha were dressed and ready. Neither could get a sitter until Carol’s regular one came on at four. Larry enthusiastically volunteered to stay behind and watch Al Junior and wait for Kenny to come home from school. He said he would join us thereafter. The four of us easily fit into Dale’s Pontiac, the two women in the back. It was a quiet ride to J. Cribbs and Son.
    The funeral home was a renovated Victorian on a commercial street three miles away. It was white with black shutters behind a sidewalk and semicircular drive more manicured than shoveled of the dirty snow around it.