And he knew something else: that even though Berry-berry was at the wheel of this truck, his brother was, in real fact, headed in some other direction, to a region more distant even than Key Bonita or Brazil. Berry-berry would drop him off at the house on Seminary Street, maybe even help him unload the bushel of apples, and then move on and away, body and soul, all by himself, to that faraway place. Clinton wondered if he might have preferred that Berry-berry had stayed away altogether. Because he was like some drug to which the family, he and Ralph and Annabel, were all addicted; and after this small taste, wasn’t there a danger they might go crazy with yearning for him? No, Clinton answered himself, they wouldn’t go crazy, but they might continue to languish for another couple of years, or forty, Ralph in the basement, Annabel on the first floor, himself on the second, in the kind of haunted silence, broken only by occasional lies and hollow half-talk, that had filled so much of the past. But Berry-berry had given him a lot to write down, to think about, and for this Clinton was grateful. Then he realized, too, that there was an off chance Berry-berry might continue for a while at Apple Mountain; and that Echo O’Brien would be around after that, to save them from themselves, and from one another.

The truck stopped in front of the Williams house.

“Clint?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll be back,” Berry-berry said. “Soon, too. Maybe even tomorrow.”

Clinton remembered the promise they had given Ralph the night before: to return in five minutes.

“Yeah,” he said. And then: “Listen, Berry-berry, I had a really swell time. It was the greatest night I ever spent, honest to God.”

“Me too, I had a wonderful time,” Berry-berry said. “Just talking, too. Which is wild because—anyway, we got a lot in common, haven’t we?”

“Oh, Christ, we really have, it’s amazing. About ten million things in common. Um . . . !” Clinton hesitated for a moment; then he said: “Listen, Berry-berry, will you do something?”

“Sure. What?”

“Will you come in the house. For a minute. And have a cup of coffee and a piece of toast. With them.” He nodded in the direction of the house.

“How come you want me to, buddy?” Berry-berry said.

“I don’t know. You know.” Clinton looked at the house. Suddenly it was like a skull, empty, no eyes, no teeth. . . . Then, he mumbled, half to himself: “It’ll give ‘em something to talk about. For another couple of years.”

[Clinton’s Notebook]

It’s absolutely unbelievable how everything can just change, like snapping a switch. I woke up today feeling like the devil, and it turned out to be the most perfect day of my life. In spite of a couple of puky details which I may not even honor them by writing down.