To my dismay, however, Lane poured Louise another drink, passing me a second beer in the process, and she began telling stories about Lane as a boy, Lane as a teenager, Lane off to college. But I shouldn’t call them stories. They were a steady stream of very specific, very inconsequential facts. I learned Lane was born on the same day Evel Knievel jumped nineteen cars, that he always liked his blueberries sour, that he’d considered Syracuse but chose NYU—why?—because he could save money by eating at home; the cost of food was rising all the time. I soon began wondering how I’d ever shut her up and get out of there.

“Have you seen my son’s herbs?”

“His what?”

“Herbs. His herb garden.”

“Mom—”

“Come look.”

Louise went over to the window. I dutifully followed and looked over her shoulder at the pots on the fire escape. The front of the building may have been restored, but the back, which Lane’s apartment faced, remained slimy and dark. I wouldn’t have wanted to put my weight on the rusted ledge of that fire escape.

“It’s rare that a man can garden, don’t you think?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Well, it is.”

Meanwhile, that pointless Icelandic music kept playing and I kept drinking, so by the time she finally said, “I’ll leave you two alone,” I was halfway between drunk and hypnotized.

As soon as the door shut behind her, I said, “So, what’s this all about?”

Lane collapsed on the couch with an exhausted groan. “Just give me a minute,” he said, an arm flung over his face. “I’m a little worn out here. Thanks for being a good sport.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“She just drops in like that.”

Lane didn’t look like he’d be getting up, so I went into the kitchen for another beer. When I turned around, he was in the doorway.

“I’m starving,” he said. “Want something to eat?”

“I guess.”

He began pulling pans from the shelves.

“It doesn’t have to be a meal,” I added.

“There’s a recipe I’ve been meaning to try,” he said, and plucked a Times clipping from where he’d stuck it to the fridge.

Over the next half hour, Lane was consumed by his cooking. He could barely make small talk, let alone articulate whatever thoughts he’d had about the story, as he trimmed the fat off duck legs and sliced up onions, carrots, and celery. Then he browned and seared the meat and cooked the vegetables in chicken broth.

“Try this,” he said, offering a shred of duck on a steaming wooden spoon.

“No thanks.”

He ate it himself, looking right into my eyes as he responded to the flavor with a moan.