He wasn’t really thinking—he was drunk, Joanie was waiting upstairs for him and Lori had tipped his boat over and he was floundering in the darkening waters, picturing her up there with Royce, down on her knees tucking in the sheets and fluffing the pillows—but if he was, or had been, he would have wondered why Alice and Charlie were so keen on his literary education all of a sudden.

“I’m sorry,” he said, getting up from the table with an assist from both hands, “I guess I’m a little out of it tonight.”

“You know Kesey’s doing the sacrament, don’t you?” Charlie said. “He’s got a whole coterie out there in California, just like us—is that interesting or what? I mean, the word is out.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, shaking his head till his ears began to ring, and what had happened to Charlie? He’d been a Ph.D. candidate, a scholar, a seeker after wisdom, and now what was he? Kesey? Who cared? What mattered was right here before them, right in this room, right in this house. “I don’t know anything about it, but—but thanks anyway.” He made a vague gesture and started for the door.

“’Night, Fitz,” Alice said.

“Yeah,” he said, and then he was out the door and passing by the group gathered round the fireplace, thinking only to climb the stairs and fall into bed beside Joanie, maybe read a bit—yeah, read a bit—but when he reached the second floor he kept on climbing.