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be a professional, for God’s sake. It made Whitey so angry, he hit her, not hard, only the back of his hand against her pimply face.
    Whitey realized almost right away that he had to make it up to her. “Okay, so we both made mistakes,” he said. “Don’t mean we can’t—” But she writhed around under him and jabbed at a button on the wall that he hadn’t noticed. “What’s that about?” said Whitey. “Look, we were getting along pretty good there for a while. No reason we—”
    The door burst open. All fucked up, like the last time, but things that hadn’t happened before were happening now, like this beefy guy coming in with the baseball bat. But the panic inside Whitey was the same: a screaming gusher from deep in his chest, boiling up and spraying red in his brain. It took away visual continuity, leaving Whitey with a few strobe-lit impressions: the beefy guy going down, the bat now in his own hands, blood here and there,
are you ready for high definition?
And then he was out the door and in the street.
    Whitey returned to the halfway house at 6:05, signed the clipboard. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Got off at the wrong stop.”
    “Everyone does, first day,” said the social worker. “But don’t make it a habit.”
    “I brought you a Pepsi.”
    “That was thoughtful of you, Whitey. I’ve been going through your file. Seems you were quite the stickman up north.”
    Silence. “Stickman?”
    “Isn’t that the term? Hockey player. I don’t really know the game.”
    “That was a long time ago.”
    “What I’m getting at, we’re big on recreation here at New Horizons. Physical activity helps to take the edge off, if you know what I mean. Ever considered maybe getting into jogging, for instance?”
    “I’ll think about it,” Whitey said.
    “That’s all we ask.”

4
    F rancie, in her bedroom, stripped off the heavy brown wrapping paper and had a good look at
oh garden, my garden—
the best kind of look, alone, private. She’d bought it on her way home from the office for $950, unable to resist, now that it was for Ned. The artist hadn’t cared at all whether the buyer was Francie or the foundation. His only request had been for payment in cash. Francie hadn’t anticipated that, but on reflection it suited her fine. Standing at the foot of her bed, with the painting propped up on the pillows, she liked it more than ever.
    There was a knock at the door. She almost said “Who is it?” but who else could it have been?
    “Dear? Are you awake?”
    Francie slid the painting under the bed, kicked the wrapping paper in after. “What is it?” she said, thinking,
dear?
    “Can I come in? Into the matrimonial chamber?”
    “It’s not locked, Roger.”
    The door opened. Roger came in, wearing a Harvard-crested robe over his shirt and tie and carrying two tumblers. “You’re in your nightie.”
    “I’m going to bed.”
    He sat down on the end of it, held out a tumbler. She noticed that his feet were bare; legs under the robe, bare, too. “Care for a drink?”
    “Thank you, Roger,” she said, laying it on the dresser. “But I’m a little tired.”
    He gave her a long look, as though he was trying to communicate some emotion. She had no idea what it could be. “Is something the matter?” she said.
    He laughed, that single bark he’d been using for laughter the past year or so. “We haven’t played tennis in some time, have we, Francie?”
    “No.”
He
hadn’t played in years. But they’d met on a tennis court: Francie, on her college team; Roger, a few years out of Harvard, helping the coach after work. Francie was a good player, if not in Roger’s class, but good enough so there were boxes of mixed-doubles trophies somewhere in the house. Had he come to set up a match? She almost laughed herself but lost the impulse when she saw him staring at her thighs.
    Roger licked his lips. “I understand you know Sandy Cronin.”
    “We’ve met.”
    “I had breakfast with him