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failed to persuade him to go as well.
    As he emerged into the still-hot night, Robert realized how drunk he really was. Too drunk to drive, probably, but how the hell else could he get home? So he got behind the wheel and made very sure that he stayed three miles beneath the speed limit the whole way.
    The house was dark and quiet, just as always, but, for some reason he couldn’t explain, it seemed darker and quieter than usual.
    He hit the john and took a long piss—too damned much beer—and then walked across the hall to Andy’s room. He hardly ever went in there. It was still the way it had been when Andy was first sent to prison. Robert stepped inside the room. The iron band that had been wrapped around his chest for several days now seemed to tighten even more. He picked up the baseball bat that was propped against the bed.
    The bat was a real classic, made to Babe Ruth’s own specifications.
    He ran his hands along the smooth ash. It felt cool to the touch. After a moment, Robert hefted the bat and gave it a trial swing. Felt good. So then he swung it again. The third swing crashed into the trophy case, smashing the glass. Robert turned around and swung again, this time hitting the portable television.
    Dimly, he realized that he was crying. Maureen would probably think that was a very good thing. He raised the bat again.

4
    Beau didn’t even want to be at the damned party.
    Unfortunately, in this case, Saul hadn’t given him any choice in the matter. Maybe they had lately reached a sort of trucelike state, occasionally even holding a pleasant conversation, but it hadn’t taken Beau very long to find out just how far he could go in his rebellions against the old man’s wishes. Sometimes, the easiest thing to do was just give in. So here he was. And not only was he appearing at the party, but he was actually wearing the new sports jacket and slacks that had been purchased for the occasion.
    Saul, it seemed, gave one party a year, and this was it. A huge red-and-yellow-striped tent had been erected in the backyard and truckloads of catered food were hauled in. Now what seemed like half the population of Los Angeles (the rich and attractive half, of course) was milling around on the lawn, eating, drinking, and, most importantly, being seen. Beau didn’t know who most of the guests were, although he did recognize a few kids from school, probably hauled along by parents. On his behalf, no doubt. They shouldn’t have bothered. He was pleased that nobody even spoke to him as he walked through the crowd, eating handmade potato chips and drinking Coke secretly spiked with rum.
    At one point in his solitary tour of the backyard, he encountered his grandfather, the host, looking expansive and pleased with himself. “Having a good time?” Saul asked him.
    Beau finished chewing a chip and then swallowed. “Do you know,” he said, “that this is the four-month anniversary of my parents’ being killed?”
    Saul just looked at him.
    Beau didn’t know why he’d said that. But once said, it would have been too embarrassing to apologize or anything. So he smiled brightly and walked away.
    Fed up with the crowd and the noise, he headed for the farthest perimeter of the vast yard, back where the orange and lemon trees grew. He found a grassy spot that was so shaded it was almost dark and sat on the ground.
    Here it was easy to close his eyes and think about the past.
    Because his thoughts were so far away, in another time and a much different place, it took Beau several moments to realize that he was no longer alone. He opened his eyes.
    A girl in a white dress was standing a few feet away, watching him. “Hi, Beau,” she said. “You look kind of lonely out here all by yourself.”
    â€œI’m okay.” It took him a couple more seconds to recognize her. “You’re Kimberly, right?”
    She favored him with a brilliantly white