“Putting it in the trash for Henri.”
“Devos is here?”
“He’s fixing my windows.”
“What else does he plan on fixing?”
“Quit it, Aaron.”
“I’m sure this is a nightmare and I’ll wake up any moment.”
“What am I supposed to do? Throw him out?”
“No need. I’ll do it for you.”
“A couple of days ago he repaid two hundred dollars of what he owed me. He’s trying to make up for his mistakes.”
“Maybe the Vatican could give him early canonization. What’s up with the bus?”
“Henri came here with them. They’ve joined up with some Buddhists. They might go up to Boulder.”
“Is the Dalai Lama on board?” I said.
“I know you’re mad at me for not giving you an answer about getting married. Don’t take it out on others.”
I had not told her about the sale of my novel. I wanted to place it like an emerald in her palm. I wanted to tell her I was going to dedicate it to her, then tell her about the new novel I was starting. Instead, I could feel a rumbling in the earth, a train going through my head, my paper-wrapped rose the scepter of the court fool.
“I’ll get dressed,” she said.
“Forget it,” I said.
“You’re acting like a child.”
“Probably,” I said, no longer looking at her.
Her eyes followed mine to the bus and the man who had just opened the front door and was swinging off the handrails onto the ground. “Don’t go near that man, Aaron.”
“Why not? He’s buds with Henri, isn’t he?”
“Please,” she said.
“I bought this rose for you,” I said. “Here.”
Then I went to my car and reached under the driver’s seat. She followed me, rising up on her toes, trying to see past my shadow. “Is that a gun?”
“Yes indeedy,” I said.
“What are you doing, Aaron?”
“I don’t know. I think I feel a spell coming on. Tell me how it works out, will you?”
I stuck the .38 Police Special in the back of my belt and walked to the bus. Jimmy Doyle, the man who could not let go of Pork Chop Hill, stood barefoot and bare-chested under the bus’s row of windows, an unlit cigar inserted in the center of his mouth. His smooth olive-colored skin was painted with the sunset. He looked like a player on the Elizabethan stage, waiting for the audience to plumb his depths. The windows were crowded with the Greek chorus, mostly female. I didn’t see Stoney or Orchid or Lindsey Lou among them.
“What’s shakin’, Doyle?” I said. “Loading up at the day-care center?”
“Beat it, fart.”
“You said you were going to dust me when you got out of the bag.”