Blaine inched a few feet farther as he anticipated the amount of time he would spend inside. The Volvo would be an oven when he came out. Would Walter be laid out in a sluggish, torpid depression—insensible to reason or to the comforting reassurance of a father’s voice? Or would he be mad as Saul, spewing poison and virulent accusations? Then there was Freddy, just back from Africa. Freddy could bullshit for hours. Blaine pondered these various intangibles. It would either be a lion’s den or a morgue in there. He wanted to park the car so that it would be in at least partial shade. He looked back over his shoulder to the east, calculating, and caught a faceful of the 8:30 A.M. sun.

Poor Walter. He was a manic-depressive, and on this most recent flipout, according to Zona, he had somehow got buck-naked outside one of their supermarkets and dropped into the position of a Greek Olympian about to launch the discus. Zona said he locked up like a coiled spring. There was no discus to hurl but rather the Revised Standard Bible that he carried with him everywhere. And he would not let go. No amount of persuasion did any good. Walter became a statue, and they had to pick him up and take him to the emergency room just like that. The paramedics were furniture movers on that run. The incident did not have the feel of Walter’s routine flipouts, either. Maybe this was a big one. Too bad Walter hadn’t let the book sail. There was such a thing as religious toxicity. It was the worst poison of all. But Blaine wasn’t going to go inside and say so. He wasn’t going to get heavy-handed or come on too strong. He had done enough of that in the old days. He was just going to listen.

Zona had implied that Walter’s ineffectual psychiatrist was some sort of “Christian” therapist. He had talked Walter out of his contortions, given him some Xanax, joined his hands in prayer, and then let Zona and Freddy drive Walter home. Blaine was glad he had missed the whole scene. He was worried about Walter but had troubles of his own. There were many things to do. Deals to be made. You just couldn’t retire anymore. God almighty no! You had to work right up until the day you died.

Blaine revved the motor for a second and then switched off the ignition. The Volvo was his only means of transportation now, and he had come to love the car, the way it automatically “found” all his destinations in town. He had sold his Ferrari for interest on taxes due—no principal paid off or anything, just penalties. The next thing to go would be the house. But before he did that he had to pour a small fortune into finishing his courtyard.