He holds a jug in his large, hairy, freckled hand, a quart of something potable clutched in a paper sack.

“Speak, O vocalissimus,” he roars.

Gatlin comes out on the catwalk of the tower and looks down. Grins, says nothing, but at once begins to descend the stairway. Ballantine looks up, shading his eyes against the glare of the sun.

“Hey! You’re up there. Get on down here. God damn it to hell, come down.”

They sit at the old picnic table near the pump, beside the rusted horseshoe pegs and the chopping block. The bottle between them, a glass in Ballantine’s hand, a tin cup before Gatlin. Canteen of branch water on the boards.

“Actually don’t drink much of this stuff anymore.”

“I’ve noticed you’re sipping rather daintily, man. For the love of God’s bod, drink up. This is a great occasion.”

“I am glad to see you again, Art.”

“Glad? Rejoice! I’ve come to rescue you from exile. To drag you out of this Godforsaken wilderness. How much longer can you let yourself rot in this unspeakable, slovenly”—Ballantine waves his big hand at the surrounding and nearly silent forest—“this blague of nothingness?”

“I like it.”

“You look good. But your mind is starving. For the sake of your nerves you’re starving your mind and drying up your soul. You’re becoming a spinster. Will Gatlin, our maiden aunt.”

“It’s nature.”

“Fuck nature. Where we throw our empty beer cans on a Sunday afternoon. Man, get out of here before you die. If you live that long.”

Neglecting the drink, Gatlin reloads his short evil pipe. Strikes a match on the tabletop.

Ballantine watches the steady hands. “Yes, you look well. But by God, Will, how many years at this now? Six? Seven?”

“Six.”

“Six years in the primeval bog.”

“Not all of it here. Various places.”

Ballantine laughs. “Various places, he says. Christ, man, what kind of places? Some of them worse than this. That hellish sandtrap you were in two years ago. What did they call it? Death Valley? Good God, what a hole! Those others. And now this…a rotting forest. What do you do for women? Make love to your fist?”

He grins. “Whatever’s handy.”

“You’re becoming a freak, Will. A fanatic. A weird queer kind of anchorite. You’re dreaming your life away.”

“Oh no, it’s not that bad.”

“Drink.” Ballantine half fills his glass, adds water from Gatlin’s canteen. “Not that bad, eh? You ever hear from the ex?”

“No. She doesn’t write.”

“The kid ever write you?”

“Yes.”

“Thank God for that. Support payments?”

“I do what I can.”

“Thank God for that too. I’d hate to see you escape scot-free, man, when all the rest of us are paying blood. Through the nose. Through the nose, Will. Visualize. O pussy-whipped men of America, visualize.”

“I’m trying.”

“But don’t let her bleed you to death. The ex-wife is like a succubus. The bitter half. The older they get the more bitter; they never forget and they never forgive. They’ll bleed a man to death if they can. And then throw the empty shell into the garbage can and cash in his life insurance. And hang his picture upside down, face to the wall, behind the water heater. And sow salt on his grave. Adding salt to insult. Don’t let her do that to you, Will. But you’ve got to make a fresh start. Get out of the woods here, shape up a bit, take a decent sort of job—you could always go back to teaching, you know, man, it pays better than ever now, they’re screaming for instructors, assistant professors, yes and the girls are better than ever—and then, when you’re set, find yourself a good strong simple-minded wench, like my new one, for example, Elsie I mean, and hurl yourself upon her. In fact you can have Elsie if you want her.”