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the lighter, dropped it, said, “Damn,” and, keeping the wheel steady on the straightaway, bent to grope for it. He found it, and the tip of his index finger closed over the glowing wire, and he said something far more colorful than damn, and dropped it again, and peered down in great annoyance.
    When the jolt came the bone of his upper arm was crushed against the steering wheel, and the pain was sharp and frightening. His head jerked toward the windshield. It took him some time to stop the car. He was sick, and afraid of fainting, not so much from the pain in his arm—it was still excruciating—but from another pain now, mounting and terrific, a pain for which he knew, even in that first instant, there would be no balm ever.
    At the moment of impact he had sensed blankly what was happening; now the blankness was gone, and he knew that it had happened. He had struck down a pedestrian. He had entered another world. He was terrified.

2
    Having, in a burst of domestic tourism, inspected appreciatively her bedroom (redwood, composition floor), living room (stone and redwood, composition floor, Mondrian windows, center fireplace), and workroom (redwood, stone floor, clearstory windows), Helen Harrison repaired to the patio. It was not a true patio; it was open to the west. On the flagstones were four chaise longues, two canvas sling chairs, a round wooden table, and three smaller metal tables. On the tables were ash trays and books, both used. Rolled tightly against the east, or rear, wall of the patio was a gaudily striped awning; on rainy days the awning was snapped to grips high on the north and south, or side, walls, and protected the patio. The awning had become less waterproof every year.
    The isolated patio was open to the west because sunsets here were impressive. The Harrisons ate later and later as spring and summer aged, primarily because they enjoyed the lonely recreation in watching a sunset, and incidentally because they enjoyed a variety of native apéritifs. When the mood was upon her—not often—Helen sunbathed on the patio. Joe would come home, not find her downstairs, go quietly out to the patio, and watch her silently, marveling, still, after thirteen years. He would break the spell deliberately: “Is he gone?”
    Naked before him, and almost breathless, Helen would ask, “Who?”
    â€œYoung Sorel,” Joe would say carelessly. Or: “That Tom Jones fellow.”
    â€œOh, him.” She would walk to him and kiss him, and pick up her robe. “I told him you were an old bear and you wouldn’t understand about love and all, and you’d probably call a cop. So he went.”
    â€œSo he went,” Joe would repeat “Things aren’t what they were when I was a boy.”
    â€œI know. The broughams, and the snow in the streets, and the overcoats with beaver collars.”
    â€œYou’re dazzling,” he would say. “You know what Ben Franklin always said.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œHe advised young men to accumulate experience with older women. Their bodies, he said, wrinkle and sag much more slowly than their faces. And of course they’re accomplished. They have put away the things of their childhood, like modesty and ineptitude.”
    â€œYou rogue. You scoundrel.”
    â€œFoiled again,” he would say, smiling. “And now, cousin, a pint of sack, as you love me.”
    â€œDrink, drink, drink. This intolerable deal of sack to a pennorth of—if you were half a man—”
    â€œâ€”you’d need two of me,” he would finish fondly, and she would accept the compliment, touching him lightly on the face, and go to prepare the drinks.
    Today, this evening, waiting for Joe, Helen was clothed. She wore a cream blouse (sleeves rolled), brown slacks, and dirty tennis shoes. The ice, liquor, and mixers rested in the shade of the round table. The sun was a diameter above the hills, and the day had begun