"You will?" she said. "That's so incredible. If there's anything I can do in return…"

Sexy voice.

"Let's just get through this," I said. "I feel sorry for the whole family."

"Yes," she said. "They're a pitiful bunch, aren't they?"

34

She was sitting on the porch and got up to meet me as I pulled up to the hitching posts. She had on a soft black minidress and black sandals. A bra this time, the cups patterned in relief under the cotton. She jogged down the big wooden steps, smiling, and I felt about to be tackled as she came straight at me. Stopping inches away, she took my hand.

Her body was sleek, but this close, with the sunlight bathing her face, I noticed tiny tuck scars where her ears met her jawline.

Face lift. Older than I'd thought?

Her hand held on to mine and I looked down and saw other scars, on her arms. Small, barely discernible, with the exception of one long white line running parallel to the knuckles of her right hand.

"Thank you." She pecked my cheek. "He's still sleeping."

Letting go, she directed me onto the porch with just a touch at the small of my back.

"How long does he usually sleep?" I said.

"He can go anywhere from two to five hours. I try to ease up on the morphine before lunch, so he'll have an appetite, but he generally reacts strongly to it."

"Who prescribes the morphine?"

"A doctor in Pacific Palisades."

"Does this doctor ever actually see him?"

She rubbed her index finger with her thumb, sighed, and smiled. "What can I say?"

I thought of how Lowell had despised Puck for his addiction.

"Come on in." She opened the front door.

"How about a walk?" I said. "I've been cooped up all day."

"Sure," she said, smiling and smoothing back her hair. "Let me get something, first."

She ran up the stairs and came back with a white plastic hand radio with a rubber antenna. The brand sticker said KidStuff.

"It's for babies," she said, clipping it onto her waistband. "But that's what old people are, right? Big babies."

She rotated a dial on the radio and static came on.

"It's got a range of about five hundred feet, so we can't go too far. Sometimes he wakes up like a baby- crying out. He wears diapers, too."

She stayed very close to me as we strolled around the house. Directly behind the building was a dry unplanted parcel broken only by an empty laundry line on metal posts.

Beyond that, the beginnings of forest, the brush growing so thick it looked impenetrable. Nova and I crossed the dirt, and I studied the house. No porches or balconies, just rough logs and windows and a single door. Drapes covered three of the windows on the ground floor.

"Is that his bedroom?" I said.

"Uh-huh. It used to be the library but he can't get upstairs anymore."

She started to walk. I kept looking at the house and she stopped.

"Ugly, isn't it?" she said.

"Like a big log cabin."

She nodded and pressed her arm against mine. "Yeah, that old rustic feeling."

"In his shape," I said, "I don't imagine decor means much."

"I doubt it ever did. Money doesn't mean much to him either. Probably 'cause he's always had it. He's cued in to one thing only: himself." Cool appraisal, no malice. Everything about her seemed cool.

"Have you worked for him a long time?"

"Six months."

"What's your background?"

She laughed. "I'm a writer."

"What kind of things do you write?"

"Poetry, mostly. I'm thinking of doing a screenplay. About California- the strange things you see here."

"Are you from the East?"

"No, up north."

"How'd you hook up with him?"

"I wrote him a fan letter and he answered. I wrote back and he sent an even longer letter. We began a correspondence. About writing: style and story structure, things like that. A few months later he offered me a job as a personal assistant. He made it sound as if he was fundamentally healthy and just needed light care. Then I arrived and found out I was going to have to change diapers."

"But you stayed anyway."

"Sure," she said, swinging her arms and picking up her pace. "He's an institution. How could I turn him down?"

Not to mention material for a screenplay.

I said, "My impression was that he's a faded institution."

Her jaw tightened, deepening the tuck scars. "Maybe to fools who follow the best-seller list."

Stopping, she raised the volume on the radio. Nothing but the static. She lowered it again but didn't move.

I said, "I heard this place was once a retreat for artists and writers."

"Long time ago."

"Nice concept."

"What is?"

"Retreating. Getting away from the grind."

"Oh, you never do. You just change gears."

She turned and began circling back toward the front of the house. I stayed with her.

"So you're a fan of his."

"Absolutely."

"Any books in particular?"

"Everything."

"Didn't he write a book of poems that was considered anti-woman?"

She gave me a sharp smile. "You mean, am I being a traitor to my sex by admiring him? Yes, to him women are meat- he grabs my ass at least once a day. But if women were honest, they'd admit men were meat to them, too. Let's face it, big cocks are better than little cocks."

Holding the smile, she swung her arms and brushed my thigh.

"We're all meat," she said, almost singing it. "What else is there? At least Buck's honest about it. I clean his shit, he can't hide anything from me."

"Nor you from him."

"What do you mean?"

"You still have to tell him about Peter."

She made a grumbling sound, nearly masculine. A scarred hand pinched her nose, then scratched the tip.

"Gnats," she said, slapping the air. "They think I'm delicious. Yes, I'll tell him. But just the fact that you're up here makes me feel good- believe it or not." Knowing smile. "You've got a certain aura. You get off on helping people, don't you?" Another thigh brush. "Thanks," she said, touching my chin.

I stepped away from her.

She looked amused. "Any advice for me?"

"What was his relationship with Peter like?"

"Only met the little shit once. Faggodly coward, begging for money. Here's Buck, struggling to live, using dope only as a last resort, and the stupid little snot shoots it voluntarily into his veins. I caught him once trying to rip off some of Buck's ampules. Told him to give them back or I'd tell Daddy. You should have seen the way his mouth dropped. He handed them over. Never came back."

"Maybe he was being honest in his own way."

"How?" she demanded, picking up her pace and moving out of touching range. The front porch came into view.

"Maybe being nothing but meat was too much for him to handle."

"Why? What else is there? A house in the suburbs? Look at that." She pointed upward, to a bird skittering among the treetops. "How long will it live? A month? A year? One day it will be flying along, and some predator will come crashing down on it, crushing its bones in its jaws, squeezing the juice out." Her neck muscles were tense. The tuck scars were deep black lines. "But it was here. It served its time. We're fools if we think we're any different. Our only meaning is being."

"So what's wrong with cutting it short?"

She stopped. "You advocate suicide? That's a switch for a psychologist, isn't it?"

"I don't advocate it. But I don't judge either."

"I do. A writer always does, that's the difference. You've devoted your life to learning the rules. I cherish the exceptions."

Good speech, but Lowell's voice seeped through.

She put her hands on her hips. "Get her up here- the daughter. What else does he have left? Isn't he entitled to it?"