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makeshift sack, and carried the whole clanking mess out to the kitchen. Returning, he opened a window, flipped over the seat cushions of the couch to dislodge any remaining debris, and patted one invitingly. “Sit down. I’ll make some coffee.”
    Candace was leaning against the doorjamb, watching him in frank amusement, a tip of pink tongue curled against her upper lip.
    “What’s so funny?” he asked.
    Her smile broadened, revealing straight pearly teeth. “You are.”
    Jack decided this would be a good moment to tuck his T-shirt into his jeans. “Party last night,” he growled cryptically.
    “I guessed.” Candace swayed over to the couch, sat down and crossed her bare legs. She gave a dreamy sigh. “I love parties.”
    “Not that kind of party. This was a boys’ night. Cards and booze and all that bad stuff. You’re much too young and innocent for that kind of thing.”
    “I’m twenty-two!” Candace protested.
    “Exactly.” Jack retreated to the kitchen, smiling to himself: young girls were so adorable. He tried to recall which story she was working on. Was it the monologue of the suicidal teenager, or the one about the wolf? He had to stop drinking so much.
    While the coffee heated, he ducked into the bathroom, located some headache pills, and washed them down with a whole glass of water. Then he squeezed out a gob of toothpaste and squelched it around his mouth with his tongue. That was better. Body cleansed, his memory followed suit, and now he remembered how Candace had approached him as he was leaving the seminar room and asked him something about The Sound and the Fury . Well, that was it. William Faulkner was his hero: a Southerner, a genius, a whisky drinker. The fact that this fresh-faced young woman had ventured beyond the cordon sanitaire enclosing Sylvia Plath, Toni Morrison, and the usual crew of politically correct writers was stirring. He wanted to find out more about her. Three beers later, he was still holding forth about Faulkner, the South, literature, and himself, prompted by her flattering attentiveness and a need to dodge her more alarming questions about “modality” and “semiotics.” That was the trouble with these self-educated or semieducated students; sometimes they knew more lit. crit. jargon than he did. The next thing he knew it was midnight; somehow they never did get around to Candace herself, though he had a dim memory that she’d said she was secretary, originally from one of those dismal industrial towns like Pittsburgh or New London. He must have given her his address and some vague invitation as he left, though it was hard to remember now. He really must stop drinking.
    When he returned with the coffee he found Candace examining his shelves.
    “All these books!” Her tone was admiring. “I can hardly believe you’ve read them all.”
    Jack could hardly believe it either. “Publishers send me things for endorsement. And I do some reviewing.” He shrugged modestly, slopping coffee.
    “Here, let me do that.” Candace took charge of the tray, pouring coffee from the pot and milk from a carton in neat, efficient movements while Jack sprawled in an armchair.
    “So this is the home of Jack Madison,” she said, settling herself back on the couch. “You can’t imagine how exciting it is for me to see how a real writer lives.”
    Jack glanced vaguely around the familiar room. Piles of old magazines were stacked on the floor. A lamp shade hung off its metal frame, where someone had bumped into it last night. The smell of dope still hung in the air. “It’s kind of messy, I guess.”
    “Creativity is messy. Writing is just so involving, I’m beginning to discover that. If my roommate talks to me I’m, like, leave me alone, I’m thinking.” She paused. “Do you find that?”
    “Absolutely.” Jack felt a prickle of familiar panic. He did not have writer’s block; he was just letting his novel ripen in his imagination.
    “But maybe you don’t have a