“Nonsense, Marge. Barney’s not your pet pigeon. He’s a man who loves you and Eddie and wants to get back to you as soon as he can. He’s coming back, Marge. I’m not kidding. I saw his legs twitch like crazy when the radio said the Celtics lost at the Garden last night.”

Marge laughed weakly. “Oh, Lucy, you do have a knack for making people feel better. I’m so glad you were here, or I might have done something terrible.”

“I don’t think so,” said Lucy.

“Oh, yes. I was really weakening. I almost did it today.”

“Well,” Lucy said, “you might have unhooked something, but it wouldn’t have killed Barney. Those machines are just monitors. He’s breathing on his own. I guess Dave didn’t realize that.”

“You mean—even if I had pulled the plug, it wouldn’t have mattered?” asked Marge.

“Well, it might have set off some alarms, but it wouldn’t have killed him,” Lucy reassured her. “My father was on a life-support machine, so I know. Now, we’ve got to get back home. I’m going to have to pay extra at Sara’s preschool as it is.” She paused, choosing her next words carefully. “Marge, if I were you, I’d try to avoid Dave for a few days. He’s probably sincere and all, but Barney’s getting better. Believe me.”

“I don’t know who to believe anymore. It’s been so long, Lucy. I just want Barney back. I miss him so much.”

Lucy glanced anxiously at Marge but was relieved to see she wasn’t crying, just sitting quietly. “So do I. We’ll really miss him at the Pinewood Derby. Last year he did such a good job as announcer.”

“He really hammed it up, didn’t he?” Marge recalled, smiling.

“The boys loved it. He made it sound just like a real car race. What’s Eddie’s car like?”

“It’s pretty sharp. Bright red, with a black bumper. Some idea of his. Last year his car broke and he didn’t get to finish. He thinks the bumper will help.”

“That is a good idea. What did he use? Foam?”

“No, a little strip of rubber. Barney got it from Dave’s wife, Carol. He remembered she used some on that sculpture she put in the front yard.”

Lucy laughed. “That thing is ugly, isn’t it?”

“Sure is. And she gets a lot of money for those things,” said Marge.

“When they sell,” observed Lucy. “Who would buy one?”

“Marcia Miller did,” Marge said. “Dave said she’s a real fan of her work, and got her placed in a gallery in Boston. I guess they’re friends.”

Lucy pulled up in front of Marge’s house and waited patiently as Marge hauled herself out of the little car.

“Thanks, Lucy. Thanks for everything.”