“Joe Harper? Huck who? Lee, them boys town boys?” “A joke, Joe, forget it.” Which he immediately did as he launched into an enthusiastic description of the plans he had for his bathroom’s color motif: “A man, don’t you agree, needs something to look at all that time besides white porcelain? Something wild, something gassy?” I let Joe Ben and his wife discuss bathroom fixtures while I finished my eggs . . . ...A threat that he finally attributes to the fear he had as a child of being forced to eat a raw egg . . . (from Hank’s shoulder the little boy gave his mother a last entreating look, but she said only, “Have fun, Leland.”) and to the fact that Hank is obviously still quite upset.... Joe was in high spirits even for Joe. He had missed the hostilities last night and had gone to bed ignorant of the redeclaration of the cold war between Hank and me, and had spent a night dreaming visionary dreams of brotherhood while his relatives wrangled below Joe’s Utopia: a color-filled world of garlands and maypoles, of bluebirds and marigolds, where Man Is Good to His Brother Simply Because It Is More Fun. Poor fool Joe with your Tinker Toy mind and scrambled world ...The story is told that when Joe was a child his cousins emptied his Christmas stocking and replaced the gifts with horse manure. Joe took one look and bolted for the door, eyes glittering with excitement. “Wait, Joe, where you going? What did ol’ Santa bring you?” According to the story Joe paused at the door for a piece of rope. “Brought me a bran’-new pony but he got away. I’ll catch ’em if I hurry.” And ever since then it seemed that Joe had been accepting more than his share of hardship as good fortune, and more than his share of shit as a sign of Shetland ponies just around the corner, Thoroughbred stallions just up the road. Were one to show him that the horses didn’t exist, never had existed, only the joke, only the shit, he would have thanked the giver for the fertilizer and started a vegetable garden. Were I to tell him I wanted to ride to church with him solely to complete my rendezvous with Viv he would have rejoiced that I was cementing relations with Hank by becoming better friends with his wife. Lee sees Hank glance briefly at him from behind the paper; eyes troubled and mouth searching for a kind and prudent phrase that will make everything all right again. He cannot find it. The mouth closes in defeat, and before the paper is lifted again Lee sees an expression of helplessness that makes him feel both elated and somewhat troubled.... But I liked the little gnome too much to risk the truth with him. What I did tell him: “I don’t mind, Joe, waiting till dark to come home. Besides, I think I heard—didn’t I hear you say, Viv, that you were thinking about driving in for low tide this afternoon after some clams?” Viv sat darning socks on a chrome kitchen stool with the toes of her tennis shoes hooked under a gleaming rung and a sock pulled over a light bulb. She drew the needle through the knot and brought the thread to her gleaming row of sharp little teeth Snip! “Not clams, Lee”—guardedly, looking into her darning box for another sock—“rock oysters. Yes. I mentioned that I might be coming in, but I don’t know . . .” She looked toward Hank. The newspaper rustled across the table, straining its newsprint eardrums. “Can I ride back with you? If you do come in?” “Shall I pick you up at Joe and Jan’s new house or where? If I do?” “That’ll be fine.” She slid the bulb into another sock; a GE eye winked at me slyly from a woolen rim. “So . . .” I had a date. I stood up from the table. “Ready when you are, Joe.” “Right. You kids! Squeaks, get the kids in the boat. Get all your stuff. Hup! Hup!” Wink. The eye was gradually stitched closed with white woolen eyelashes. Snip. “So I guess I’ll see you later, Lee?” she asked with tense indifference and a white woolen thread hanging from her lip. “Yeah, I guess.” I yawned over my shoulder as I followed Joe out of the kitchen. “Later”—and yawned again: I could be as indifferent as they come. For a second, after Hank returns to his newspaper, unable to go through with his start, Lee longs to run to his brother and ask for his forgiveness and his help: Hank, pull me up! save me! don’t let me die down here like an insect! (The little boy turned from his mother. “Hank, I’m awful tired—” Hank knuckled the boy’s head. “Don’t be a sissy now, sport—ol’ Hankus’ll keep the dark from gettin’ you.”)—but decides instead: The devil with him; what does he care? and clamps his jaw indignantly . . . In the front room Hank asked if I was p............