“It’s just dinner,” Rabbit protests. “I’ll be back for the eleven-o’clock news.”

“That big honky with the sideways eyes, she may have something planned for dessert.”

“You stay as late as you want,” Jill tells him. “We’ll leave the porch light on and won’t wait up.”

“What’re you two going to do tonight?”

“Jes’ read and knit and sit cozy by the fire,” Skeeter tells him.

“Her number’s in the book if you need to get ahold of me. Under just M.”

“We won’t disturb you,” Jill tells him.

Nelson unexpectedly says, “Skeeter, lock the doors and don’t go outside unless you have to.”

The Negro pats the boy’s brushed hair. “Wouldn’t dream of it, chile. Ol’ tarbaby, he just stay right here in his briar patch.”

Nelson says suddenly, panicking, “Dad, we shouldn’t go.”

“Don’t be dumb.” They go. Orange sunlight stripes with long shadows the spaces of flat lawn between the low houses. As Vista Crescent curves, the sun moves behind them and Rabbit is struck, seeing their elongated shadows side by side, by how much like himself Nelson walks: the same loose lope below, the same faintly tense stillness of the head and shoulders above. In shadow the boy, like himself, is as tall as the giant at the top of the beanstalk, treading the sidewalk on telescoping legs. Rabbit turns to speak. Beside him, the boy’s overlong dark hair bounces as he strides to keep up, lugging his pajamas and toothbrush and change of underwear and sweater in a paper grocery bag for tomorrow’s boat ride, an early birthday party. Rabbit finds there is nothing to say, just mute love spinning down, love for this extension of himself downward into time when he will be in the grave, love cool as the flame of sunlight burning level among the stick-thin maples and fallen leaves, themselves flames curling.

And from Peggy’s windows Brewer glows and dwindles like ashes in a gigantic hearth. The river shines blue long after the shores turn black. There is a puppy in the apartment now, a fuzzy big-pawed Golden that tugs at Rabbit’s hand with a slippery nipping mouth; its fur, touched, is as surprising in its softness as ferns. Peggy has remembered he likes Daiquiris; this time she has mix and the electric blender rattles with ice before she brings him his drink, half froth. She has aged a month: a pound or two around her waist, two or three more gray hairs showing at her parting. She has gathered her hair back in a twist, rather than letting it straggle around her face as if she were still in high school. Her face looks pushed-forward, scrubbed, glossy. She tells him wearily, “Ollie and I may be getting back together.”

She is wearing a blue dress, secretarial, that suits her more than that paisley that kept riding up her pasty thighs. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

“It’s good for Billy.” The boys, once Nelson arrived, went down the elevator again, to try to repair the mini-bike in the basement. “In fact, that’s mostly the reason; Ollie is worried about Billy. With me working and not home until dark, he hangs around with that bad crowd up toward the bridge. You know, it’s not like when we were young, the temptations they’re exposed to. It’s not just cigarettes and a little feeling up. At thirteen now, they’re ready to go.”