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arm.
    “You’re a sensitive one, aren’t you?” Sally asked.
    “He’s an old man. I’ve known him all my life.”
    “Poor boy,” she said, touching the tip of mynose with a delicate finger. “You need a little tender loving care.”
    The interview with Harrison Shanks used up only ninety-three seconds of a special show dealing with the problems of the aged but my alliance with Sally lasted much longer than that. But not long enough. That was the terrible part: leaving Alison and Holly for Sally and all the bright promises of Boston, to dislocate our lives and make Holly that pitiable object—the child of a broken home—to do all that and then to end up alone, after all. Sally found other sensitive men upon whom to bestow her tender loving care. Her care wasn’t really loving, I had learned, and I drifted from one job to another, sideways, not upward. To go upward demanded more than talent. It demanded ruthlessness and cunning, the necessity for sitting up nights plotting the next day’s maneuver, the next day’s presentation. But I found more allure in a drink or two, which became three or four, and then, what the hell, let’s have a party, let’s have some fun. And then it wasn’t fun anymore.
    “Daddy, you look kooky,” Holly said now, giggling uncontrollably.
    “You’re not exactly Cinderella at the ball,” I retorted.
    We were regarding ourselves in the fun-house mirrors: Holly suddenly short and fat as if invisible hands had clapped her head down into her body, and I ludicrously tall and thin, pencil-like, my head a soiled eraser. Then we moved and exchanged grotesqueries, laughing some more at our reversed roles. At one point, I picked her upand whirled her around, basking in the gaiety of her laughter, despite the pain that stabbed my head. Dizziness overtook me and I set her down. “Let’s rest awhile, baby.” But she was carried on the momentum of her excitement and pulled me on. “The Rocket Ride, Dad, the Rocket Ride.”
    I let myself be led through the sun-dazzled park, telling myself to hold out for a little while. There was a small bar across the street and maybe I could duck in there for a cool one while Holly went on the rocket. On those Thursdays with Holly, I had seldom cheated that way, had devoted all my time to her, perhaps to show Alison that I wasn’t completely without a conscience. When I had first called her after finding my loneliness intolerable, she’d been skeptical.
    “We’ve been doing nicely, thanks,” she said, cool and crisp. “Don’t upset things, Howie. We haven’t seen you for—how long? Three years?—and we’ve arranged our lives. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”
    “You mean, you don’t need me,” I said.
    When she didn’t answer, I took the plunge. “But I need you.”
    Her laughter infuriated me. I wanted to hurt her. “All right, maybe not you. But Holly. I need her. She’s mine, too. My blood runs—”
    “I know. Your blood runs in her veins. But nothing else, I hope.”
    I was startled by her bitterness but, upon reflection, I saw that she was justified. When the divorce had become final, I hadn’t made any particular demands about Holly. Alison had been generous enough to leave the terms open: I couldsee the child whenever and however I wished. Terms that I did not take her up on, because I was too intoxicated with my freedom and Sally and later the others. Until that day I called, alone and desperate in that hotel room, abandoned by everyone, needing somebody. And so we decided, over the telephone, that Holly would be mine on Thursdays. Thursday afternoon to be precise. Those first few weeks, I clutched at those hours with Holly as if they were gulps of oxygen in an airless world. We made the rounds, stiff and awkward at first, but finally Holly began to laugh at my jokes and eventually she accepted me. Alison remained distant, however, and never ventured out of the house. I was not invited inside, of course.
    One day she addressed me