“I’m going away for a while.”

“Where?”

“Maybe Europe. They could use me in Spain, I’m thinking.”

“Spain? You mean the war? What do you care about Spain?”

“You have to care about something. I don’t have anything left to care about anymore, nothing I love that’s not stolen away. I have to find something, or I swear I’ll die.”

“What about flying? You care about flying.”

He turned his head, and the light from the kitchen burned in his eyes. “You care about flying, Irene. I haven’t given a damn about it since I walked out of that sheep station eight years ago. Since then, I’ve just been making a living.”

“But you’re the best pilot I know.”

Sam finished the cigarette and stubbed it out. “You should go home.”

“You can’t just give up! Fly with me. We’re a team, remember? We could fly around the world together, like we said.”

“What I’m trying to tell you,” Sam said gently, “is that it doesn’t matter to me anymore. Flying does not matter. Setting some record, it’s pointless. You get yourself killed for no reason at all.”

“That’s not true.”

“If I’m going to get killed, I want to die for a reason. I want my daughter, if she ever gives a damn, to say that her father died for something. For a reason, for something that was bigger than his own ego.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t say it like you’re already dying.”

He lifted his empty glass and held it by the rim. “Irene, we’re all dying,” he said. “Some of us take longer than others, that’s all.”

After the dishes were done, Irene put a record on the old-fashioned phonograph in the living room and made cocoa. She helped Sam into the armchair in the living room and sat on the rug, leaning against his good knee while they listened to music. The first record was some sentimental Kalmar and Ruby, “Who’s Sorry Now” followed by “Thinking of You.” When that finished, and the needle scratched softly on the disc, Irene got up and flipped through the records until she found something without words, a Schubert piano concerto. She put that on and returned to Sam’s knee. This time he idled his hand in her hair.

“Remember when I cut it for you?” he said. “Little did I know we were creating a sensational new hairstyle. Copied by millions of women the world over.”

“Hardly millions.”

“But nobody wears it better than you.” He lifted a curl and ran it between his finger and thumb. “It’s getting late, Irene. You should be heading home.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Someone’s got to look after you.”

“Your husband might have something to say about that.”

“My husband’s in New York.”

“But he’ll be back. Sooner or later.”