Phil went over and picked up the remote and turned on the TV. He stood there behind the couch staring at it. Linda walked past me. She said, “Daddy, turn that off.”

She took the remote out of his hand. She said, “Christ.” She stood there, staring at him. He removed his hat and rested it on his chest. His freckled bald head looked flat and smooth. He said, “What.”

“Go talk to her,” Linda said. “Now.” She put the remote down on the back of the couch and pointed her finger over at the guest-bedroom door, sort of crookedly, with a bent finger, like an old witch’s; her hand shook. “Go,” she said, and continued the incantation, “because this is pathetic. You’re not doing this here. You be nice.”

He wet his lips and looked at her. Linda placed her hands on her hips. He said, “Yeah, yeah.” He put the hat on again and slid it back and went over to the guest-bedroom door. He knocked and said, “Barbara,” and went in.

Linda came over and stood in front of me. She was grinning like crazy. She said, “Did I do good?”

I said, “Yep.”

“I took charge of my life.”

I said, “Yeah.”

She said, “What’s wrong?” Her rash was glowing.

I said, “What do you think would happen if the world stopped letting you pant in their face?” She stopped smiling. I went outside to find the dog, to make up for choking him.

THE BARBECUE THAT night was a mellow affair. The neighbors all came and everybody was cool. They were thrilled and giddy to meet Linda’s famous dad, and there was a ring of people around him all night, joking, laughing, asking his advice. Linda cooked steak and spun around in her new dress, grabbing her dad and showing him off, introducing her friends by their professions and showing them off, too. She’d picked up some steroids from the doctor, and her skin was better. We stayed away from each other. There was that jolly group, like, over there, and I was over here, talking to Barbara about her exercise routine. She played with the dog, who was rolling on his back, drooling, with this beautiful woman scratching his pink belly.

Phil had made the call to the affiliate. The deal was done. I said thanks. “You ready to rumble?” he said. I said yes. “You happy?” he said. I said yes. Absolutely.

I think of that mean thing I said to Linda—what was that all about? It’s like there’s a bird in my mouth, screeching. Maybe one day I’d open my mouth and it would come out like a flying hockey puck. I don’t know, some nights I’d like to shoot out all the lights of this fucking house.