“Look at me, Frankie.”

He glanced up. Her hand clutched modestly the collar of her robe. The cut was still visible on her lip. She told him he hadn’t meant to do it, thrusting his hand out blindly in his drunkenness. He tried to meet her eyes. All at once he saw her on the bed in that miserable room, thrusting a thick wad of tissues between her legs. Wasteful. As she always was. When she spilled something on the linoleum in the kitchen, she would drop a clean tea towel on the floor, push it around with her foot, then just throw it away.

“What’s wrong with you? Why don’t you look at me?”

“Why don’t you put some clothes on and damn well do something with yourself? Then there’d be something to look at.”

The feet remained in front of him for a moment. Finally they swiveled around and she returned to the house. Easing back under the Dart, he felt as if something massive were being slowly lowered onto his chest, crushing the life out of him. He imagined the car slipping off its supports: real weight, not this phantom weight. Placing his hand against a jack, he gradually increased the pressure. All at once there was a creak and shift, like ice about to give. With frantic haste he caterpillared himself out.

His heart pounded, pollywog lights swimming in his eyes. A moment later a knock came at the back gate and he went to answer it.

Miss Kelly peered up at him through her thick glasses. “I had a bit of a spill.” She looked down at her bike. Her knuckles were grazed and bleeding. “The handlebars have gone funny and I can’t get the chain out.”

“Let me have a look at it.” Still struggling to catch his breath from the fright, he carried the bike into the yard, leaned it against the fence, and knelt down to check the chain.