He went into the kitchen, ignored the veal stew Janet had made for him and lit the oven. Then he took a Hungry Man chicken pie out of the freezer, ripped off the cardboard box, stabbed the frozen top crust a few times with her Sabatier, slipped it into the oven and set the timer for forty-five minutes.

He went back into the living room, looked again at the painting. “Maybe I needed the shit scared out of me,” he said aloud. But the thought of the man in the sweater chilled him. He went over to the hutch in the corner, opened its left door, flipped on the little Sony TV inside. Then he crossed the big room to the dry sink and began rummaging for candy. He kept candy in various places.

He found a couple of pieces of butterscotch and began sucking on one of them. Back in the kitchen he opened the oven door a moment, enjoying the feel of the hot air. His little Hungry Man pie sat inside, waiting for him.

There had been a man’s voice on television for a minute or so, reciting some kind of disaster news. A California brush fire or something. There in the kitchen Harold began to realize that the voice was familiar, gravelly. It had a slight French accent. He rushed into the living room, still holding a potholder. On the TV screen was the sandy-haired man in the sweater, saying “… from Pasadena, California, for NBC news.” Then John Chancellor came on.

Harold threw the potholder at the TV screen. “You son of a bitch!” he shouted. “You ubiquitous son of a bitch!” Then he sank into the director’s chair, on the edge of tears. His eyes burned.

It was dark outside when his pie was ready. He ate it as if it were cardboard, forcing himself to eat every bite. To keep his strength up, as his mother would have said, for the oncoming storm. For the oncoming storm.

He kept the TV off that evening and did not go out. He finished the painting by artificial light at three in the morning, took two Sominex tablets and went to bed, frightened. He had wanted to call Janet but hadn’t. That would have been chicken. He slept without dreaming for nine hours.

***

It was noon when he got up from the big platform bed and stumbled into the kitchen for breakfast. He drank a cup of cold zucchini soup while waiting for the coffee from yesterday to heat up. He felt okay, ready for the man in the sweater whenever he might strike. The coffee boiled over, spattering the white wall with brown tears. He reached to pull the big Chemex off the burner and scalded himself. “Shit!” he said, and held his burned hand under cold tapwater for a half minute. He walked into the living room and began looking at the painting in daylight. It was really very good. Just the right feeling, the right arrangement. Scary, too. He took it from the easel, set it against a wall. Then he thought better of that. The cats might get at it. He hadn’t seen the cats for a while. He looked around him. No cats. He put the painting on top of the dry sink, out of harm’s way. He would put out some cat food.