Clinton hurried down the stairs, pausing on the landing just long enough to light a cigarette; and then he proceeded out the front door and into the car. As he put the key in the dashboard, something cautioned him against driving at any reckless speed: it seemed important to do everything well, with no push or strain; it was essential that he maintain just the right rhythm, the simple thoughtless pace appropriate to each moment as it arrived. Evenness. Perfect evenness was needed.

Down Apple Mountain’s long main street. Across the wooden bridge at the edge of town. The dirt road, and a turn to the left. Apples in the air, sweet and rotting. An arbor of gnarled branches over the driveway. Slow. Slow through the slush and the puddles. Continue, but slow.

See anything? Just a light. The truck is gone. Stop! Reverse gears. Back up. Slow through the mud puddles, and even slower at the road. Back out of here. Leave the car somewhere.

Why?

No questions now. Put the car away, anywhere. Out of sight. A gray shed, empty and abandoned. Park behind it. Put the lights out, keys in your pocket. Walk back to the house. No hurry. You have half an hour. Maybe more.

What will happen at the house?

No questions. One step, one moment at a time. No thinking. Don’t spoil it with thinking. Smell the sweetness of the air. See the black earth. All the apples going back into it. The black earth eating the apples, silently sucking in the sweetness. Walk around the puddles. The rainfall helps to rot the apples. And nature thrives on what it kills.

There’s a light in the downstairs bedroom. Listen at the window. No sounds. Silence. Are they asleep? Never mind. Go to the back door. Something scurrying about under the house. Field mice. Now wipe your feet. The door is unlocked. Step inside. Quiet. Untie your shoes; take them off. Go softly up the stairs; careful of the bottles on the steps; keep close to the wall and the boards won’t creak.

Now you’re here. You can do anything.

But what?

Don’t think. Thinking makes fear. Turn on the light.

Won’t they see it?

Of course not. —There’s a bottle under the bed. Go ahead. Why not? Just a couple of swallows. Now the drawer, the bottom drawer. Softly, slowly. No hurry.

Mercury! Hello, Mercury.

Now breathe deep and slow. Relax, drop your shoulders, don’t hunch. Don’t tighten up. Now open the directory.

Oh, God!

Shut up. Now take it in your hand. It’s heavy, and cool. It’s wonderful the way they make these things to fit in your hand, just right. Comfortable.

Ugly.

What’s ugly? That’s a word. That’s thinking. Don’t think. Why not have a cigarette and one more swallow from the bottle. There. Now, better put the bottle under the bed.