"I'll call you later," he said brusquely. He got up and headed around the corner to his car. I heard him fire up his engine and peel away from the curb with a chirp of rubber on pavement. I could feel my face burning for an hour afterward.

I locked myself in my apartment and tidied my underwear drawer. I needed to do something small and useful. I had to get a handle on life in a risk-free arena where I could feel competent again. Maybe folding underpants didn't amount to much, but it was the best I could do. I moved on to the chest of drawers and refolded my shirts. Then I tackled the junk drawer downstairs. I hated the idea of being prosecuted. Obstruction of justice was serious damn shit. I pictured myself in jail garb, legs shackled, hands manacled in front, doing the traditional inmate two-step while shuffling to and from court. That began to seem a bit melodramatic and I decided there was no point in going overboard on the self-flagellation. So I'd goofed. Big deal. I hadn't killed anyone.

After an hour, I became aware of voices outside my door, one being Henry's. I glanced out the kitchen window, but the angle was too extreme for me to see who else was there. I went to the front door, popped the locks, and opened it a crack. Henry, Lewis, and William were standing together in the driveway. Lewis and William were both in three-piece suits while Henry wore his usual shorts, T-shirt, and flip-flops. He'd backed the station wagon out of the garage and Lewis was loading his bags in the rear. As I looked on, I heard a soft ping, and William removed his pocket watch from his vest and checked the time. He took out a small packet of trail mix and made a production of opening the sealed cellophane, which generated copious crackling noises. Henry flicked him a look of annoyance but continued the conversation with Lewis, which seemed to be about nothing in particular. I eased the door shut, gratified that one conflict had been peacefully resolved, or so I hoped. The truth about strong emotion is that it's difficult to sustain. Despite how victimized we feel, it's hard work hanging on to anger, even when it's tinged with righteousness. Holding a grudge against someone is (sometimes) more trouble than it's worth.

Reba called at 2:00. As I'm constitutionally unable to resist a ringing phone, I was on the verge of snatching up the handset. I hesitated, curbing the impulse, and let the machine pick up. She said, "Oh, poo. I was hoping you'd be there. I just had this big ol' stinkin' fight with Lucinda and I'm dying to tell you about it. I practically threw her out on her ass only not really, but you know, figuratively speaking. Anyway, call me when you can and I'll fill you in. Also, there's something else we need to talk about. Bye-bye."