At one point, through his alcohol-clouded brain, he decided to confront Everett once more, to ask him to reconsider—what? Perhaps Horace could take advantage of Everett’s drunken state. He kept an eye on Everett, noticed him with the blue-eyed Georgian, Edward. They were getting closer and closer physically there in the corner, as the other cast members boogied about. Horace waited for the right moment to walk over and talk to Everett. Antonio came up to him, telling him that he and a few others were going over to the graveyard. The graveyard? Why? Just to go, man. (wink) Just to go. Come on. I’ll come along later.

Horace never got a chance to talk to Everett because he left the party with Edward, giggling drunkenly but staring into those Georgian eyes with clear intent. Horace rose unsteadily to follow them. What did he plan to do? Beat up the six-foot-two Edward? What would he say?

Sitting on the steps, Horace got cold for the first time and was glad he had finally put on a coat. Looking up, he saw the figure again, and knew that he was being led toward something.

Why? He asked, not really expecting an answer anymore. Being reminded of stories he loved as a child. Being reminded of their fateful endings. Across the highway from the theater was an old cemetery, bordered by high maple trees, the graves cutting far back into another wood.

That night. The night. He watched as the two men left the auditorium and went out into the hall. He went down both ends of the hall, looking, casually, for any sign of them, Perhaps they had gone outside for a breath of air. In the back of his mind he knew where they had gone. Was he going to sit down with them and discuss the political situation? He went to Everett’s room. The door was open; it was empty. He walked back down the long hallway, down the stairs toward the other actor’s room, feeling silly, impotent, defeated. Edward’s door was closed. He stood motionless for a moment, swaying from the alcohol. Laughter came drifting through the door. It was Everett’s voice. Horace leaned against the door and thought of space ships and running and fresh-baked bread and comic books and new shoes that don’t hurt and Thanksgiving turkey and Christmas presents and the sound of waves crashing against the piers at the beach and asked himself why he was here, and wondered what had compelled him to lean against the door, and he felt tired, weary, but he turned just the same and went back to join the party.