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It was a picture of a clearing in which one old eucalyptus tree stood. Do you need a more graphic warning, Paul-baby? Had he known, before this had he really known how badly she had cowed him, or how much of his essential self — the liver and lights of his spirit — she had scraped away? Dimly he seemed to hear some madly enthusiastic sportscaster — Howard Cosell or Warner Wolf or perhaps that all-time crazy Johnny Most — describing the scene, as if his effort to get at her drug supply before the pain killed him was some strange sporting event — a trial substitution for Monday Night Football, perhaps. The pain was like the piling, sometimes covered and sometimes visible, but always there. That, and some intellectual curiosity about where she had come from, and why now. Suddenly he wanted a hit of rock and roll worse than he had ever wanted a cigarette."No,»she said. She made it stay down. ""Then what is? No need to lie this time. Paul's head snapped up.

Minor matters such as what the fucking book was supposed to be about would have to wait. Paul was not particularly sensitive, even though he had been a heavy smoker for nearly eighteen years, but his breathing had stopped nonetheless on at least one occasion (there might have been others, in the haze, that he did not remember). But for the handwritten captions on the backs, they could have been photos in one of those WHAT IS THIS PICTURE? It was while he ate the soup that she told him what had happened, and he remembered it all as she told him and he supposed it was good to know how you happened to end up with your legs shattered, but the manner by which he was coming to this knowledge was disquieting — it was as if he was a character in a story or a play, a character whose history is not recounted like history but created like fiction. "I'd like some different paper, if you could get it,»he said when she came back to put the typewriter and paper on the board. There was no toilet in here, but he had already suspected that — the only flushing sounds came from upstairs, and now that he thought of it, one of those upstairs flushes always followed his use of the bedpan. Not to kill her but to defend himself from her revenge by cutting his wrists open. Daniel could say, for instance: "Luckily, Careless had his Winchester with him and plenty of ammo. At first he thought he was dreaming about his own book, that the dark was the dream-dark of the caves behind the huge stone head of the Bourka Bee-Goddess and the sting was that of a bee — "Paul? Here was the secular version of the Pentecostal fire, burning before her very eyes. He groped for whatever it might mean, but for a long time the sounds interrupted. Should be all right, the place looked like a goddam junk-heap — Leaning far to his left, he was able to snag a second carton. "He did not bat an eye when he said it; after a moment or two Paul realized he either was serious or thought he was. It wasn't until after the thumbectomy, and that bizarre birthday cake like a left-over prop from Whatever Happened to Baby Jane, that the balls of crumpled-up paper had begun to proliferate in the wastebasket again. Here was a Call clipping which said that the stray cat the student nurses adopted had been poisoned. "That night, around eight o'clock, he hoisted himself carefully into the wheelchair. "I guess fellows like you must get so used to lying for a living that you just can't stop doing it in real life. Paul regarded this a moment, then opened his pad, picked up a pencil, and found the hole in the paper. Little scraps of khaki uniform lay in the driveway or fluttered in the freshly cut grass of the side lawn. "Her hand flickered out whip-quick and rocked his head over to one side with a thin spatting sound. He could see the fine copperplate of the numbers the smaller needle at the bottom which recorded tenths of seconds, he could see the brand name printed in tiny letters: ANNEX. The photograph, enclosed in a rococo frame of gold gilt, was the size of the President's photograph in the lobby of a big-city post office.