It took him a while to go back to the phone with a voice he could trust. Brad Karr's wife told him the Manhattan hospital where Brad was a psychiatric patient. He was able to dial Brad's room directly, remembering as he did the time they'd done that slice-of-life commercial for Maxwell House coffee, when they were kids in their twenties, just starting out together, teamed up as a copywriter and an art director, and they broke the bank on the day-after recall score. They got a 34, the highest score in the history of Maxwell House. It was the day of the group Christmas party, and Brad, knowing Clarence would be coming, had his sidekick make cardboard buttons saying "34," and everybody wore them, and Clarence stopped by just to congratulate Brad and him and even put on a button, and they were on their way.

"Hello, Brad? Your old buddy calling from the Jersey Shore."

"Hi. Hello there."

"What's up, kid? I called your house a few minutes ago. I just had a yen to talk to you after all this time, and Mary told me you were in the hospital. That's how I've reached you. How are you doing?"

"Well, I'm doing all right. As such things go."

"How are you feeling?"

"Well, there are better places to be."

"Is it awful?"

"It could be worse. I mean, this happens to be a pretty good one. It's okay. I don't recommend it for a holiday, but it's been all right."

"How long have you been there?"

"Oh, about a week." Mary Karr had just told him that it had been a month at this point, and that it was his second stay in a year, and that things hadn't been so great in between. Brad's speech was very slow and faltering — probably from the medication — and heavy with hopelessness. "I expect I'll be out soon," he said.

"What do you do all day?"

"Oh, you cut out paper dolls. Things like that. I wander up and down the hallways. Try to keep my sanity."

"What else?"

"Take therapy. Take drugs. I feel like I'm a depository for every drug you can name."

"In addition to the antidepressant, there's other stuff?"

"Yeah. It's mostly a downer. It's not the tranquilizers, it's the antidepressants. They're working, I think."

"Are you able to sleep?"

"Oh yeah. At first there was a little problem, but now they've gotten that part straightened out."

"Do you talk to a doctor during the day?"

"Yeah." Brad laughed, and for the first time sounded something like himself. "He doesn't do any good. He's nice. He tells you to buck up and everything's going to be all right."

"Bradford, remember when you were pissed at Clarence about something and gave him two weeks' notice? I told you not to leave. You said, 'But I've resigned.' 'Rescind your resignation,' I said. And you did. Who else but Clarence and what other agency would have put up with that crap from a copywriter? You did it twice, as I remember. And stayed another ten years."

He'd gotten Brad to laugh again. "Yeah, I was always nuts," Brad said.

"We worked together for a lot of years. Endless silent hours together, hundreds and hundreds, maybe thousands and thousands of silent hours together in your office or mine trying to figure things out."

"That was something," Brad said.

"You bet it was. You were something. And don't forget it."

"Thanks, buddy."

"And so what about leaving?" he asked Brad. "When do you think that's going to happen?"

"Well, I don't really know. I imagine it's a matter of a couple of weeks. Since I've been here I've been far less depressed than when I was out. I feel almost composed. I think I'm going to recover."

"That's good news. I'll call you again. I hope to speak to you under better circumstances very shortly."

"Okay. Thanks for calling," Brad said. "Thanks a lot. I'm awfully glad you called."

After hanging up, he wondered: Did he know it was me? Did he truly remember what I remembered? From the voice alone I can't imagine he'll ever get out of there.

Then the third call. He couldn't stop himself from making it, though learning of Brad's hospitalization and Clarence's death and seeing the damage caused by Phoebe's stroke had given him enough to ponder for a while. As did Gwen's reminding him of his teaching Nancy to sing "Smile" like Nat "King" Cole. This call was to Ezra Pollock, who wasn't expected to live out the month but who, astonishingly, when he answered the phone, sounded like someone happy and fulfilled and no less cocky than usual.

"Ez," he said, "what's cookin'? You sound elated."

"I rise to conversation because conversation is my only recreation.&qu............