"I hope you didn't miss me this morning, David. I couldn't sleep so I walked back out to the camper. I didn't think you'd mind."

"What took place? What occurred or happened? It seems to have slipped my mind."

"It stopped raining and the fantasies came out to play. Your home movie had put you in a state of anguish. I tried to console you. You wanted to be drenched in sin and so I made it my business to help you along. Old friends have obligations to each other. David, I truly love you and hate you. I love you because you're a beautiful thing and a good boy. You're more innocent than a field mouse and I don't believe you have any evil in you, if that's possible. And I hate you because you're sick. Illness to a certain point inspires pity. Beyond that point it becomes hateful. It becomes very much like a personal insult. One wishes to destroy the sickness by destroying the patient. You're such a lovable cliche, my love, and I do hope you've found the center of your sin, although I must say that nothing we did last night struck me as being so terribly odd."

"Kiss my ass," I said.

"Do you need any money?"

"Brand tell you to ask me that?"

"He said you were running low. I have some. We're bound to bump into each other again. You can pay me back then."

"I can manage, Sully."

"Where are you going?"

"West, I guess."

"I hate to think of you all alone out there, David. Honest, I really do love you in my own spidery way. You'll have no one to talk to. And no one to play games with. And the distances are vast. We're parked right across the street. Come with us."

"Where?"

"Back to Maine. Then home."

"What about Brand? Will he stay in Maine?"

"He hasn't decided," she said. "It all depends on his auntie Mildred. If she comes across with some money he may try Mexico. Otherwise he goes back to the garage. His only real hope is to return to combat. I've suggested he re-enlist. I'm convinced it's the only way he'll survive. You've got to confront the demons here and now. Right, leftenant?"

"There aren't any demons bothering me," I said. "My problem is immense, as we both know, but it's strictly an ethnic one. I don't have any Jewish friends. How do you know so much about Brand?"

"He tells me things."

"Has he told you about his novel? The Great American Sheaf of Blank Paper."

"He whispered the sad details."

"When was this?" I said.

"That very first night in Maine."

"I don't seem to remember you two being alone at any point in the evening."

"He came into the room."

"The one you and I were sleeping in?"

"Yes."

"I see."

"And he knelt by my bed and whispered things to me. Sad little things. He wanted me to know the truth. I guess he thought it would make for a happier trip. I gave him absolution of course."

"And then you moved over and let him get into bed with you."

"That's correct," she said.

"And I was right across the room. A deep sleep it was indeed. And you two have been swinging ever since?"

"Here and there."

"I see."

"Yes," she said.

"What I don't understand are the logistics of the thing. How did you manage it?"

"We grasped at every fleeting opportunity. It was like the springtime of urgent love. While we were on the road it wasn't at all easy. Things picked up when we got here."

"What about Pike?"

"Guard duty," she said.

"And the first time was that night in Maine and I was right across the room."

"It was really quite funny, David. You were snoring like Lyndon Baines Johnson."

"I don't snore. I do not fucking snore."

What followed had its aspects of burlesque humor, a touch of stylized sadism, bits of old tent shows and the pie in the face. I swung my legs over the arm of the chair and pushed myself up over it and onto the floor. Sullivan got off the bed and we were both standing now. In her soiled torn trenchcoat she seemed to belong in a demonstration thirty years overdue.

"Wait here," I said. "I want to take leave of the others. Handclasp of manly comrades. We'll drink to destiny."

"And what will you and I drink to, David?"

"My health, of course."

I climbed into the back of the camper. Pike and Brand were playing gin rummy. Pike was talking about the dingo dogs of Australia and he did not look up when I came in. I stood behind him, put my hands on his shoulders and squeezed very hard. Finally he had to stop talking.

"The lady wants you."

"What for?" he said.

"Room 211. You'd better haul ass, colonel."

He got up slowly and left and I took his folding chair, turning it around first so that my crossed arms rested on its back as I faced Brand across the small table. He was wearing a khaki fatigue jacket. I was wearing rugged corduroy trousers and a blue workshirt.

"She told me," I said.

"Who told you what?"

"Sully told me that you two have been playing doctor and nursey."

"So what."

"That took balls when you consider that we're old friends, you and I, and she was with me if not in name then certainly by implication."

"Balls help," he said.

"I've known her for years. You can't just move in like that."

"You knew her for years and I knew her for minutes. It comes to the same thing. These matters have to be assessed in the light of eternity."

"Let me tell you something. Latch on to this. Are you listening? She let you into her pants only because you're afraid to be a writer. Did you get that? My advice to you is re-up in the goddamn Air Force. Our weapons system isn't complete without you."

"At least I flew, buddy. You were some kind of grunt or file clerk."

"I wasn't even in."

"That figures."

"That figures, does it?"

"Damn straight." he said.

"Let's get out to where we'll have some room to move around in."

"Talk is cheap."

"That's a very original comment," I said.

We walked through a narrow driveway into the parking lot behind the hotel. Three cars were back there, front bumpers nudging a long squared-off log. Brand took off his jacket and threw it to the ground. I reached for the tattooed dogs on his forearm and began to pinch. He looked surprised and then yelled. Then he pinched the side of my neck. We held on to each other that way, pinching and trying not to grimace or yell. I was in great pain. I knew I could not take it for very long and I let go of him and kicked him in the shins. He pulled my hair. Then we stood facing each other.

"Why are we fighting over that ugly bitch?" I said.

"She's not ugly."

"Homely then."

"She's not even homely and you know it."

"She's homely."

"She is not," he said.

"Aren't you going to take off your glasses?"

We started to wrestle and he bit me on the shoulder. I got him in a headlock and then spun him to the ground over my hip. I didn't kick him in the ribs although it would have been the easiest thing in the world. Then, on the ground, he looked up at me fiercely and clutched his groin. It was a strange thing to do and I didn't know what it was supposed to mean.

I helped him up and we went out front. We shook hands and I told him he could have my car or sell it and keep the money; either way it was his. Then I went to the back of the camper and stole Sullivan's radio. I left it with the desk clerk and went upstairs. I told them Brand was waiting and we wished each other luck. Pike and I shook hands. Sullivan kissed me on the chin. When they were gone I packed my things in two suitcases, including the camera, which weighed only about seven-and-a-half pounds, and all the reels of tape and film. I decided to leave behind the tripod and tape recorder as well as a suit, a sportcoat and two pairs of shoes. I called the desk clerk upstairs and told him that everything was his and that it was more than enough to pay for repainting the room. He went away confused. Then I masturbated into the clean sheets, feeling an odd and emptying joy, the cool uncaring pleasure of those times when nothing is foreseen and all that is left behind seems so much dead weight for the ministrations of the minor clergy. I went downstairs and stuffed the radio into one of the suitcases. Then I took off on the first stage of the second journey, the great seeking leap into the depths of America, wilderness dream of all poets and scoutmasters, westward to our manifest destiny, to sovereign red timber and painted sands, to the gold-transfigured hills, westward to match the shadows of my image and my self.