But Walter didn’t have Blaine’s German genes. Blaine and his wife, Joanna, had adopted Wally. The boy was just three when they got him. This whole manic-psychosis business had to be genetic. He had been a happy kid back in Appleton, Wisconsin. Blaine had racked his brain trying to think of some way in which he had failed his son. There was nothing major. Blaine recalled the streams of dogs, birds, and rabbits, and Walter’s pals and girlfriends. Walter hadn’t been a very good student, but he had one stupendous season as an all-state catcher on the baseball team. Blaine could still remember the fastball Wally drove deep into the right-centerfield seats, breaking up a no-hitter in the state championship game. The opposing pitcher was brimming with confidence, and he challenged Walter with a fat one right down the middle. Boom! As soon as Wally made contact, everyone knew that ball was gone. It was one of those tape-measure jobs—four hundred and four feet. What a day that had been; probably the kid’s best day. The very next week, Walter came within a half inch of setting a state record in the discus throw. The first athlete at Appleton to double-letter in spring sports. Blaine bought Walter a brand-new Corvair a few days later, and in less than a month, Walter was in the hospital; he had experienced his first manic flipout and rolled the car. There were subsequent hospitalizations for psychiatric treatment. Successions of therapists. Years of nothing but pain and trouble, really. Hell, trouble was the one constant in life. Pain and trouble. They pervaded everything.

Blaine stepped under the fig tree and examined its leaves. It had once been lush and productive of fruit, and now it was barren. Did it suffer—actually suffer on some level? He studied the tree with wonder, stroking its rough trunk. Love could save this plant. Zona could get her ass out here and save this plant if she felt like it. But you couldn’t stay on top of everything. Blaine walked away from the fig tree. See you later. He was in up to his neck on several levels, and he realized now why he was stalling. He did not want to go inside.

It was a relief to duck into the vestibule and get out of the blazing sun. Blaine was sweating in his seersucker suit. He pushed the doorbell, swept his fingers through his mane of chestnut brown hair, and then rammed both hands in his pockets as he rocked back and forth on his heels. The right words would be there for him.