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fucking an acceptable act. Yeah, weren't we wonderful? You can trace the roots of AIDS and the drug problem right back to us freewheelin ' youth of the sixties. And now our kids gotta live with the mess." Frank sighed. 'There are times I think we were shitheads, Woody."
    "Everybody's a shithead when they're young. God willing, we're not quite as big shitheads when we get older."
    Frank sighed. "I don't know. By that time it's too late anyway. What do they say, reap the wind, sow the whirlwind?”
    “Other way around."
    "Farming was never my strong suit."
    When they reached Iselin, Woody drove to Parini's Realty, where they picked up several boxes of clothing Carla Dewey had shipped, as well as records and other artifacts Woody had sent from California.
    "Good God," Frank said as they loaded the boxes into the trunk, "you having a party or a rummage sale?"
    "Don't complain. Your clothes are in here somewhere."
    "I just hope this friend of yours hasn't costumed me as a tie-dyed hippie."
    "No. I gave Carla more than sizes—little descriptions of each person so she'd know the kind of things they'd wear. As I recall, you were country chic—denim bells, Dingo boots, work shirt, bulky knit sweaters."
    "Love it," Frank said as they climbed into the car. "God, I was cool, wasn't I?"
    Woody laughed. "Groovy, man."
    The smiles faded and the laughter stopped as they pulled into the parking lot in back of the old apartment building. "It hasn't changed at all," Frank said softly. "It's eerie."
    Woody forced a chuckle as he backed into a space in the empty lot. "And we haven't even been inside."
    They both sat for a moment, looking through the windshield at the dark windows.
    "Well," Woody said, "are we going to sit here and wax nostalgic or are we going to move some furniture?"
    Frank brightened. "I didn't know I had a choice."
    Though Frank trailed as they climbed the squeaking stairs, Woody could sense his nervousness. It was the same as his own. He put the key in the lock and turned the knob quickly. The door opened with a soft squeal he remembered well, and he stepped inside.
    He drank in the place with all of his senses, and knew what Odysseus must have felt upon reaching home after twenty years of wandering. It was not sight or smell that captured him, but an ambience, a sense of time turning on itself, sweeping over him like a warm blanket, and it seemed that he saw the place, not as it was now, but as it had been, and a great joy filled him.
    "Woody?"
    It was Frank's voice, but it sounded younger, and Woody knew his friend was with him, sharing the escape back into time, and he turned to him, beaming.
    But then he saw that Frank was old, and knew that he was older too, and the joy ran out of him.
    "It's really weird," Frank said, shaking his head. "I didn't think it'd hit me like this, but it's really weird."
    "I know," Woody said, turning back and looking at the furniture he had never seen before. "I thought for a minute . . ." But he shook his head, denying the past its hold on him. "Let's look around."
    The living room still had two sofas, an easy chair, and a coffee table, but the furniture was too contemporary to suit Woody's purposes. The only things that could remain were the tall brass lamps whose style hadn't changed since the fifties, and the brick and board shelves, the perennial college student excuse for bookcases. The walls were no longer their sickly, institutional, pale green, but an off white marred here and there by chipping and dirt, and a wall to wall carpet had replaced the thin, worn, oriental whose design had been lost years before.
    As they walked into the dining room, Woody thought he saw, from the corner of his eye, a figure leaning against one of the pillars. He turned quickly, but no one was there.
    "What is it?" Frank asked.
    "Nothing," Woody said, thinking of Keith's habitual station, holding up the left hand pillar. But then he saw the sideboard, and gave a breathy laugh of disbelief. "My God, it's