“And you’re supposed to wear a mask,” Perry said. “But we kept stepping on the pieces.”

“No peripheral vision,” Lester said.

“Caucus race!” Perry yelled, and took a lap around the world. Lester struggled to his feet, the flopped back down.

“I disbelieve,” he said, taking up two ten-sided dice and rolling them. “87,” he said.

“Fine,” Perry said. He picked up a Battleship board and said, “B7,” and then he said, “What’s the score, anyway?”

“Orange to seven,” Lester said.

“Who’s orange?”

“You are.”

“Shit. OK, let’s take a break.”

Suzanne tried to hold in her laughter, but she couldn’t. She ended up doubled over, tears streaming down her face. When she straightened up, Lester hobbled to her and gave her a surprisingly strong welcome-home hug. He smelled like Lester, like the man she’d shared her bed with all these years.

Perry held out his hand to her and she yanked him into a long, hard hug.

“It’s good to have you back, Perry,” she said, once she’d kissed both his cheeks.

“It’s fantastic to see you, Suzanne,” he said. He was thinner than she remembered, with snow on the roof, but he was still handsome as a pirate.

“We missed you. Tell me everything you’ve been up to.”

“It’s not interesting,” he said. “Really.”

“I find that difficult to believe.”

So he told them stories from the road, and they were interesting in a kind of microcosm sort of way. Stories about interesting characters he’d met, improbable meals he’d eaten, bad working conditions, memorable rides hitched.

“So that’s it?” Suzanne said. “That’s what you’ve done?”

“It’s what I do,” he said.

“And you’re happy?”

“I’m not sad,” he said.

She shook her head involuntarily. Perry stiffened.

“What’s wrong with not sad?”

“There’s nothing wrong with it, Perry. I’m—” she faltered, searched for the words. “Remember when I first met you, met both of you, in that ghost mall? You weren’t just happy, you were hysterical. Remember the Boogie-Woogie Elmos? The car they drove?”

Perry looked away. “Yeah,” he said softly. There was a hitch in his voice.

“All I’m saying is, it doesn’t have to be this way. You could—”

“Could what?” he said. He sounded angry, but she thought that he was just upset. “I could go work for Disney, sit in a workshop all day making crap no one cares about? Be the wage-slave for the end of my days, a caged monkey for some corporate sultan’s zoo?” The phrase was Lester’s, and Suzanne knew then that Perry and Lester had been talking about it.

Lester, leaning heavily against her on the sofa (they’d pushed it back into the room, moving aside pieces of the Calvinball game), made a warning sound and gave her knee a squeeze. Aha, definitely territory they’d covered before then.

“You two have some of the finest entrepreneurial instincts I’ve ever encountered,” she said. Perry snorted.

“What’s more, I’ve never seen you happier than you were back when I first met you, making stuff for the sheer joy of it and selling it to collectors. Do you know how many collectors would pony up for an original Gibbons/Banks today? You two could just do that forever—”

“Lester’s medical—”

“Lester’s medical nothing. You two get together on this, you could make so much money, we could buy Lester his own hospital.” Besides, Lester won’t last long no matter what happens. She didn’t say it, but there it was. She’d come to grips with the reality years ago, when his symptoms first appeared—when all the fatkins’ symptoms began to appear. Now she could think of it without getting that hitch in her chest that she’d gotten at first. Now she could go away for a week to work on a story without weeping every night, then drying her eyes and calling Lester to make sure he was still alive.

“I’m not saying you need to do this to the exclusion of everything else, or forever—” there is no forever for Lester “—but you two would have to be insane not to try it. Look at this board-game thing you’ve done—”

“Calvinball,” Perry said.

“Calvinball. Right. You were made for this. You two make each other better. Perry, let’s be honest here. You don’t have anything better to do.”

She held her breath. It had been years since she’d spoken to Perry, years since she’d had the right to say things like that to him. Once upon a time, she wouldn’t have thought twice, but now—

“Let me sleep on it,” Perry said.

Which meant no, of course. Perry didn’t sleep on things. He decided to do things. Sometimes he decided wrong, but he’d never had trouble deciding.

That night, Lester rubbed her back, the way he always did when she came back from the road, using the hand-cream she kept on her end-table. His hands had once been so strong, mechanic’s hands, stubby-fingered pistons he could drive tirelessly into the knots in her back. Now they smoothed and petted, a rub, not a massage. Every time she came home, it was gentler, somehow more loving. But she missed her massages. Sometimes she thought she should tell him not to bother anymore, but she was afraid of what it would mean to end this ritual—and how many more rituals would end in its wake.

It was the briefest backrub yet and then he slid under the covers with her. She held him for a long time, spooning him from behind, her face in the nape of his neck, kissing his collar bone the way he liked, and he moaned softly.

“I love you, Suzanne,” he said.

“What brought that on?”

“It’s just good to have you home,” he said.

“You seem to have been taking pretty good care of yourself while I was away, getting in some Perry time.”

“I took him to Musso and Frank,” he said. “I ate like a pig.”

“And you paid the price, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. For days.”

“Serves you right. That Perry is such a bad influence on my boy.”

“I’ll miss him.”

“You think he’ll go, then?”

“You know he will.”

“Oh, honey.”

“Some wounds don’t heal,” he said. “I guess.”

“I’m sure it’s not that,” Suzanne said. “He loves you. I bet this is the best week he’s had in years.”

“So why wouldn’t he want to stay?” Lester’s voice came out in the petulant near-sob she had only ever heard when he was in extreme physical pain. It was a voice she heard more and more often lately.

“Maybe he’s just afraid of himself. He’s been on the run for a long time. You have to ask yourself, what’s he running from? It seems to me that he’s spent his whole life trying to avoid having to look himself in the eye.”

Lester sighed and she squeezed him tight. “How’d we get so screwed up?”

“Oh, baby,” she said, “we’re not screwed up. We’re just people who want to do things, big things. Any time you want to make a difference, you face the possibility that you’ll, you know, make a difference. It’s a consequence of doing things with consequences.”

“Gak,” he said. “You always get so Zen-koan when you’re on the road.”

“Gives me time to reflect. Were you reading?”

“Was I reading? Suzanne, I read your posts whenever I feel lonely. It’s kind of like having you home with me.”

“You’re sweet.”

“Did you really eat sardines on sorbet toast?”

“Don’t knock it. It’s better than it sounds. Lots better.”

“You can keep it.”

“Listen to Mr Musso and Frank—boy, you’ve got no business criticizing anyone else’s food choices.”

He heaved a happy sigh. “I love you, Suzanne Church.”

“You’re a good man, Lester Banks.”

Perry met them at the breakfast table the next morning as Suzanne was fiddling with the espresso machine, steaming soy milk for her latte. He wore a pair of Lester’s sloppy drawstring pants and a t-shirt for a motorcycle shop in Kansas City that was spotted with old motor-oil stains.

“Bom dia,” he said, and chucked Lester on the shoulder. He was carrying himself with a certain stiffness, and Suzanne thought, Here it comes; he’s going to say goodbye. Perry Gibbons, you bastard.