To put distance between them, Rabbit rides the 16A six blocks further, to where it turns up Greely, and gets off there, walking back to the roasted-peanut place on Weiser to catch the bus to Penn Villas. PIG ATROCITIES STIR CAMDEN says a headline on a rack, a radical black paper out of Philly. Harry feels nervous, looking north along Weiser for a pink shirt coming after him. The place on his bare neck where Eccles touched tickles: amazing how that guy wants to cling, after all these years, with both their lives turned upside down. The bus number 12 comes and pulls him across the bridge. The day whines at the windows, a September brightness empty of a future: the lawns smitten flat, the black river listless and stinking. HOBBY HEAVEN. BUTCH CSSDY & KID. He walks down Emberly toward Vista Crescent among sprinklers twirling in unison, under television aerials raking the same four-o’clock garbage from the sky.

The dirty white Porsche is in the driveway, halfway into the garage, the way Janice used to do it, annoyingly. Jill is in the brown armchair, in her slip. From the slumped way she sits he sees she has no underpants on. She answers his questions groggily, with a lag, as if they are coming to her through a packing of dirty cotton, of fuzzy memories accumulated this day.

“Where’d you go so early this morning?”

“Out. Away from creeps like you.”

“You drop the kid off?”

“Sure.”

“When’d you get back?”

“Just now.”

“Where’d you spend all day?”

“Maybe I went to Valley Forge anyway.”

“Maybe you didn’t.”

“I did.”

“How was it?”

“Beautiful. A gas, actually. George was a beautiful dude.”

“Describe one room.”

“You go in a door, and there’s a four-poster bed, and a little tasselled pillow, and on it it says, ‘George Washington slept here.’ On the bedside tables you can still see the pills he took, to make himself sleep, when the redcoats had got him all uptight. The walls have some kind of lineny stuff on them, and all the chairs have ropes across the arms so you can’t sit down on them. That’s why I’m sitting on this one. Because it didn’t. O.K.?”

He hesitates among the many alternatives she seems to be presenting. Laughter, anger, battle, surrender. “O.K. Sounds interesting. I’m sorry we couldn’t go.”

“Where did you go?”

“I went to visit my mother, after doing the housework around here.”

“How is she?”

“She talks better, but seems frailer.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry she has that disease. I guess I’ll never meet your mother, will I?”

“Do you want to? You can see my father any time you want, just be in the Phoenix Bar at four-fifteen. You’d like him, he cares about politics. He thinks the System is shit, just like you do.”

“And I’ll never meet your wife.”

“Why would you want to? What is this?”

“I don’t know, I’m interested. Maybe I’m falling for you.”

“Jesus, don’t do that.”