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Ho un vero proprio catalogo di tipi… definizioni di tanti passeggeri… Giulia: E io? Che tipo di passeggero sono? Nino: A una prima occhiata, si direbbe che non sei ancora un passeggero. Giulia: Probabilmente hai ragione, farei bene a cercare la mia meta in me stessa… anche questo richiede coraggio… ma, vedi, mi sento improvvisamente vecchia e non voglio invecchiare senza aver vissuto. La donna di prima ha lasciato una situazione comoda per andare a cercare se stessa a Delhi, Andreza ha fatto del suo bambino la sua meta, quei ragazzi cercano la poesia delle cose, e io?

Mentre i due chiacchierano, entra Angelo e va a sedersi al tavolino, ma poi si rialza subito. Nino: «Non si parte da nessuna parte senza aver prima sognato un posto e, viceversa, senza viaggiare, prima o poi finiscono tutti i sogni o si resta bloccati sempre nello stesso sogno», Wim Wenders… Comunque, mi sembri un tantino complicata.

Giulia: Cosa? Si vede. Giulia: Non capisco. E ha una fottuta paura! Lo sai che da piccolo ho sfilato con degli abiti Trussardi? Angelo, piacere. Fa per darle la mano, lei incredula e divertita porge la mano e con una grande stretta si presenta.

Giulia: Sono Giulia, piacere mio! Angelo si dirige verso il bancone, cercando nervosamente qualcosa in tasca. Nino: Dipende. Angelo [con voce tremolante]: Da cosaaa? Nino: Vuoi soltanto rilassarti o vuoi proprio dormire? Angelo: Non voglio capire che sto volando. Una dovrebbe bastare, quelle sono forti! Io di queste cose… uuuuh. Tutti i giorni. Giulia [al barista]: Ma che fai? Sei matto? Che gli fai prendere? Quelle pasticche sono solo erbe… valeriana… ma si sa, nella vita basta crederci!

Giulia: Cosa vorresti dire? Giulia torna al tavolo e cerca di dare un ordine ai fogli sparsi. Il barista ride. Angelo, quasi come per un gesto estremo, ingerisce la compressa, e subito un senso di rilassatezza pervade il suo corpo. Potrei addirittura picchiarlo, come faceva con mamma. Penso a mio padre! Mio padre?! Lui, mio padre, si era semplicemente stancato.

Si era stancato di avere una famiglia. Ti stanchi, prendi la famiglia e la metti fuori di casa, fuori dalla vita. Che poi, che me ne frega, neanche lo penso a quello! Mi sta proprio simpatico. Grande Carlo! Se non fosse stato per lui, non sarei qui… e non riesco a calmarmi! Ho paura [si alza e cammina nel locale]. Angelo [come riprendendosi]: Eh? Non ho mai… [continuando a camminare] non ho mai avuto il coraggio prima. Mia madre ci soffre. Da sola ci ha cresciuti.

Potrei scrivere un libro su mia madre. Era Trussardi. Che bello io e mio fratello su quella passerella, quanta gente! Almeno duemila persone che ci ammiravano. Angelo si gira di spalle al pubblico e parte la proiezione di vecchie foto o video dei due fratelli, mentre si anima la scena con una coreografia. Angelo si volta verso Giulia, mentre il video e la musica si fermano. Angelo: Se non era per Carlo neanche partivo oggi.

Giulia [tornando al suo tavolo] E dove vai di bello? Angelo: Di bello? Allora, sono partito da Senigallia, no, da Oriolo, no, da Cesano che poi ci sono pure nato a Cesano. Carlo mi ha regalato il biglietto. Ma ora non devo pensare a lui, ma a un altro viaggio, quello vero… il primo viaggio e il biglietto me lo ha pagato Carlo… vado in Guatemala… Giulia: Guatemala? Deve essere bello il Guatemala! E tu dove vai? Stai partendo? O stai arrivando? Giulia: Sto… non so ancora dove, ma sto partendo… Angelo [interrompendola]: Mi sento proprio pronto.

Meno male che mi sono fatto convincere. Dagli amici e da Carlo, soprattutto! Io non sento nulla. Nino: Vai tranquillo. E poi pensa che stai andando in Guatemala! Verrei anche io. Se potessi lasciare questo posto! Arriva la chiamata del volo per Guatemala, parte la musica, arrivano gli amici con zaini e valige. Parte la coreografia e sulla musica si sente Angelo urlare. Angelo: Mamma mamma che ansia! Prendi il primo aeroplano che ti capitaaaaaaaa [esce di scena]. Ma tu come fai? Ogni giorno, non fai che vivere le storie degli altri!

Entra Pietro, camminando lentamente e trascinandosi dietro una borsa tipo quelle da palestra con un atteggiamento rassegnato. Giulia [al barista]: Ho bisogno di concentrazione! Devo, e dico devo, scrivere questa lettera! Mi sono accor- 31 ta di aver lavorato per costruirmi un futuro e ora che ci sono riuscita non so cosa farmene. Ho bisogno di pensare a me, oltre al lavoro. E vi ringrazio per gli sforzi che avete fatto per mandarmi a scuola, aprire lo studio era il mio sogno e voi mi avete aiutato.

Penso a voi due, alla nostra famiglia, a quanto, nonostante i sacrifici, eravamo felici e a quanto voi siete felici, ora. Voglio essere orgogliosa dei miei figli, voglio essere felice della vita che sto vivendo e voglio sentirmi completa. She tried the windows. The cold was waking her up. She panicked. She knocked on the door, quietly at first. Then she began to pound. She pounded until Ethan, in boxers and a sweatshirt, carrying a Louisville Slugger, appeared behind the glass of the door.

Ethan flipped on the outside light. He opened the door. Were they red? She was afraid to look. Her breath poured like smoke from her nose. He squinted, wobbled. Good, she thought. Hurry, she told herself. Catch your breath. She tried. She wheezed.

Her numb feet squeaked in the Summer 11 Vollmer snow. Ethan, standing in the doorway, clutched the bat in his fist like a boy waiting for a swry he wanted W believe. Who would live in such a frosted house of shadows? Ghosts turned silver with age. They come and go with the rising of the sun, the turning of the seasons. In summer I think they live in the dew at the edge of deep woods where the last pasture touches the first trees. Sometimes they slip in among the hickories and beech, darkening into silhouettes.

It is hard to walk in the woods without stepping on them: what you think is the spongy floor of the forest is their dark bodies lying all in one direction, circling the trees they cling w, always rooted somehow wherever they choose to lie down. All the swries are true.

Even the loyal horses balk as if at the edge of quicksand, dance nervously sideways against the traces, eyes rolling. The tall green hayfields lie down under the rain; no blade can lift them. The cows em the pale grass; their milk turns to water. The wheat swims in rows like rice paddies and rots above its own reflection.

There are jokes about building arks and paddling to town for groceries, but with an edge in the voice and the eyes above the smile not smiling. How can one part of this round world go so out of balance this way? After tWa years of everything gone wrong, they would do anything. By day they eye the best calf, at night dream ancient images of blood dripping over a scone altar, Apollo driving the chariot of the sun a little closer to smell the sweet smoke, dry the earch, and send the corn crackling inco its golden ears.

Early morning at the sink in the old farmhouse, rain on the roof drumming like impatient fingers on a table top, the man shaving cuts himsel[ Slowly he walks outside, shirtless into the liquid dawn, raises his bleeding face in hopes the rain will drink his blood, be satisfied. He has little left to offer. Tears are no different from what is already falling, and would be invisible co anyone in the sky, looking down.

He broad jumps over Canada into North Dakota, sits down on Wyoming and shakes the earth our of his boots. He flattens the Heartland and stumbles into Texas, the eye of Hurricane Alicia. Max thought he was sure to find him since he is a sociologist, too. They made up fabulous stories about their searches through the eyelets, how they braved the fan of the tongue and used their flashlights under the heel.

But the only evidence they were able to produce was a Busch tall boy full of sand, an unpaid utility bill from and lies, lies, lies. They hang from a pole in bare light, fingers of soft wood whittled thin for holding in what could flutter any momenc from the field, through an open window: brown sparrow, starling, plain house finch drawn the sill by a handful of sunflower seeds. Kindness is the lure, a homing in. What follows after? A thimbleful of water every morning, an oilcloth cover.

When he pushes the gate open and holds her hands, strokes her hair, she thinks she hears the passing echo. What remembrance of himself does he bring to harvest song from his new captive! To compensate, Danny and his friends carried six or seven pistols in bandoleers of one kind or another their mothers had sewn for them.

So the boys had to be careful not to get carried away in the heat of battle and shoot too soon or too often because when the inevitable happened and one of them ran out of water, he would have to leave all his buddies up on the front line and high, tail it way back to one of the buckets to refill.

As that summer progressed and Danny returned home in the late afternoon after running patrols, he found more and more cardboard boxes piled on top of each other in the living room and dining room and more and more empty spaces in the other rooms in the house. You take care of your mother and sister. Bobby Greccelman came running up and gave Danny his very best squirt gun, the black one with the red fox head on the handle. Danny told him that he and his family would be back soon, maybe in three or four weeks.

That night Danny and his sister had to sleep in sleeping bags in a bare bedroom in their house and then get up early for the car trip. Danny had it figured this way. They were going out west. They were like the pioneers. Out to the wilderness. And wilderness meant Indians. A wild and ferocious tribe.

This tribe was known as the Fox Tribe and they dressed in fox skins and their chief was called the Fox King and they danced around bonfires and killed and scalped all the white men who dared to enter their forests. Only one man had a chance, thought Danny. And this man was himself-since he had the pistol with the secret red fox head on the handle.

At first, thought Danny, the Indians would try to kill him, too. But Danny would hold them off, firing away, killing lots of Indians. And then, towards the end of the battle, the Fox King would see the red fox head on the handle of the pistol and understand. All the fighting would stop and the king would come forward and dress Danny in fox skins, too.

The trip to West Virginia took three days. They stopped at two different motel courts on the way. Each time they had a cabin of their own. That last morning, once they had left the motel court, they seemed to go through endless valleys with trees going up on both Summer 17 Harshbarger sides of the hills. Danny kept a sharp watch for Indians.

Then she turned up a smaller road past the gas station, then an even smaller road, and then stopped at a lane going back into the woods. His mother got out of the car and closed the door of the mailbox. Danny had been looking for Indians because this looked like the home of the Fox Tribe to him.

His mother started the car up the lane and the car bounced and rocked along for what seemed like a long time with the woods on both sides until it came around a corner and Danny saw a white house with a pump in the from yard and off to one side a red harn and several sheds. His sister cradled her teddy bear in her anns. Just in back of the house a pasture led down to a stream and the stream curved into the woods and trees in the woods went up on roth sides into the hills.

Love to the children. Out of my way now. She was still carrying her teddy bear. His bandoleer carried seven pistols. Eight pistols would probably be enough for entering the forest. He stood up and looked over at the woods. They seemed very big and different from the orchard back home near the railroad trestle and the quarry. And, for all he knew, besides ferocious Indians, there might also be bears and wolves in there.

The last time he looked back she was still standing there just at the beginning of the pasture holding her teddy bear. The Indians were sure to have scouts up on the hills-perhaps young men his own age. He walked very carefully so as nOt to step on any twigs. Indians could hear anything, everyone knew that, and twigs were the most important things not to step on. Suddenly Danny heard a noise above him. He stopped. He saw two squirrels in the branches. Just as the squirrel jumped Danny pulled the trigger.

He watched the squirt of water arch up, curve over and fall to the ground not four feet away from him. The squirrel ran down the branch of the tree towards the trunk and the other squirrel. After he checked a srrange. Except one problem: the stream went through a kind of narrow place with rocks on both sides. Everyone knew that was just the kind of place Indians used for ambushes.

Very slowly Danny went down the bank next to the stream, keep, ing a look-out all the time, squeezed past some rocks, and as he came up on the other side saw a blur of movement up on the hillside. An Indian. It was a dog, zigzagging, nose to the ground, making sudden stops, and then a flurry of digging. Danny was just won, dering whose dog it might be when a rabbit sprang out in front of the dog and bounded down the hill towards Danny, the dog exploding behind the rabbit.

Danny ran ahead, the bandoleer of water pistols slapping against his back. There in front of him, nOt seventy-nve feet away and next to the stream, he saw a boy, a white boy, nOt an Indian at all, wearing long rubber boots, an old jeans jacket and a baseball cap.

The boy reached down into a burlap sack and pulled a dark object out of it and bent down over the stream. But what to do? Tell him to get out? No matter what, Danny realized he needed to reload his pistol. As he slipped the bandoleer 0 his shoulder, the dog that had been chasing the rabbit troned back along the stream and saw Danny.

The dog charged, ears down, fangs bared, stopping about ten feet away, snarling, edging closer. The dog cringed to the ground. The boy at the stream walkednOt ran-up the stream bank, reached down, jerked the dog up by the scruff of the neck, hit him across the face, then again and again across the face, the dog now howling and whining, the boy kicking 30 RJGUEI27 him in the belly, the dog howling louder.

At last the boy stOpped hitting and kicking the dog. Danny had never seen a dog beaten like that. He had never seen anything beaten like that. The dog scarted to crawl on its belly, or almost on its belly, over toward Danny, whining, its tail tucked back under its lxxIy.

The dog cowered away. Then he walked over to the stream. He picked up his burlap bag and climbed our of the bank of the stream. Danny followed him along the stream until the boy stOpped, put down his bag, and went over the stream bank again. The dog had started running up on the side of the hill.

The boy reached up to his burlap bag, pulled out a dark steel trap with a chain hanging from it, strained with his arms to pry the jaws of the trap open, pushed the trap half under the water next to the hole, pulled the chain away from the trap, and tied the chain around a root of a tree. Danny followed the boy along the stream as he set his traps and marked each one with a piece of white cloth on a stick.

The dog ran down the hiIl and across the stream. The boy pulled out his last trap and held it in front of him. You want to open her that way. Danny followed along beside him. They were on some kind of trail, not a real trail, but maybe an animal trail. Danny remembered the mailbox at the beginning of the lane. We bought it. My father bought it. The dog ran ahead of them. The boy threw his burlap sack over the barbed wire and climbed up and over the fence, right over the bag.

All the time Danny was thinking that in just a moment he would turn around and go back because soon his mother would call him for lunch and she would have no idea where he was, especially not that he was walking along J1 RJGUE 27 The Fox King some dirt road with this boy. The dogs jumped all over the boy and sniffed around Danny.

The house had a kind of screen porch and the boy opened the door to the porch and sat down on a milk can and began to take off his rubber boots. Danny came inside, too, and closed the screen door. Danny had never seen so many discarded things in one place: an old washing machine, sprockets from a gear box, the innards of what looked like a radio set, several old red gas cans, a box ofjar lids, ears of corn over in the corner, a pitchfork, an old horse saddle, car chains, kitchen stools, a pile of clothing on a work bench, and a big wooden wardrobe against the wall.

Inside the house he could hear a radio playing, and looking through the door frame he saw several children, one without any bottoms on, and a fat woman sitting in a big easy chair. For the first time Danny saw the boy had a missing front tooth. Now that he had taken off his baseball cap Danny also saw he had red hair.

He had never seen such a beautiful one before. Danny took the barrel of the rifle with one hand and the wooden stock with the other. The rifle was far heavier than he had expected. But he liked the smooth feel of the wooden stock and could smell the faint odor of gun oil.

The bolt of the rifle was silver and curved down and the scope ran along the tOp of the rifle barrel. He slid the lid back and Danny sawall the shells lined up, copper casings with lead tips. He dug about ten of the shells out of the box, stuck them into the breast pocket of his jeans jacket, and put the box back into the corner of the wardrobe.

As soon as they were outside the screen porch and the dogs saw the rifle, they went mad jumping and barking, some of them running off ahead into the trees and bushes, then lurching back. Again Danny took it. Again it was far heavier than he expected. Again he felt the smooth wood of the stock and the cool metal of the barrel. Off to one side the boy had picked up a branch and was whipping one of the dogs.

The dog had rolled over on his back whining and yelping. They started crawling along the ground. Danny eased up beside him and looked up to where he was pointing. Sure enough, he saw some large black birds lip in the top of a cree in fronc of them. They were hopping from branch to branch and one of them started cawing, making a lot of noise. Danny watched him do ie, the bolt pulled back, the copper shell with the lead tip pllshed down into the chamber, the bolt thrown forward and locked down, then the bun of the rifle back in against the shoulder, the lefc arm supponing the barrel of the rifle, the cheek in against the rifle and the eye at the scope.

Lying beside him Danny also watched the big black birds hop from branch to branch. One of them flew to the very top of the tree and began to preen itself under the wing. There was a terrible ringing in his ears, a stinging, and the bird, the one at the very top of the tree, exploded into a black smoke of feathers.

The boy pulled the bolt back, the copper casing popping out, and pushed another shell in and threw the bolt forward. He reached down, picked the rifle up off the ground, pulled open the bolt, and ejected the shell. He was a large man with a puffy red face and red hair sticking out from under his green John Deere cap.

One of the fingers from his right hand was missing. But he made it to the fence down the road, pushed through the barbed wire, and ran down the hill and ran and ran uncil he was at Summer J5 Harshbarger the scream and saw the white pieces of cloth the boy had put on the sticks co mark his traps. The fence, he thought. He had torn the back of his hand coming through the barbed-wire fence. He looked, his bloodied hand out in front of him.

Up the hill next co a rock, an animal stared back at him. A fox. It had red fur and a pointed nose and bright eyes with ears cocked forward. The Fox King. The pistol hissed and a few drops of water dribbled out. Thcn I walk over to the living room windows. As always, these next ninety seconds, while my coffee reheats, are a splendid time to watch birds at the feeder. An evening grosbeak! I walk back and open its door. The coffee is gone.

Did I press the wrong button and vaporize the mug? I remember putting it somewhere that had a door. Not in the oven or pantry. Since morning is my best time, mistaking the breadoox for the microwave before a. Minor achievements, I know. But each one is a triumph of homeostasis, and taken tOgether they permit the illusion of sound health. A stable state. Bur I know that the stahle state is as shatterable as glass.

When things are in balance, as they have been for months now, I feel graced by memory and by thought as they function with greater cohesion. Just last week, I was able to figure out how to operate the ratcheting clasp of a nylon cargo strap, a task requiring greater powers of abstract reasoning, memory, and physical dexterity than I can routinely command. The achievement left me giddy with pleasure.

When memory and reason fail, when thoughts cannot cohere and time falls apart, I become trapped in a blizzard of fragmented images. A crazed, whirling storm of confusion, a kaleidoscopic cognitive white-out. I want to avoid feeling that way again. This episooe with the missing coffee mug could be an early sign of trouble; I might be slipping.

I blame the August heat. After sopping up the mess, I put the wet cloth in the freezer instead of taking it downstairs to the laundry room. I find it stiff and crusted with ice later that day, while looking in the freezer for a copy of The New Yorker. Early afternoon, when the phone rings, I slip on my headset and say Hello, but the phone just keeps ringing. I speak louder, enunciating clearly so the caller will hear me, but the ringing continues and no one answers me.

So I remove the headset and turn it around, placing the earpiece on my right side this time. Still no one answers. With the headset on and the phone ringing away, I walk out of the house to see if the reception might improve. Typical prank. Evidence is beginning to mount. But it is an intriguing way to describe the earlier phone fiasco, and I recognize it as one of my more memorable paraphasias.

But instead of speaking, I shrug my shoulders. Except for this nre on my inner elbow. I have a hive on my inner elbow. Right there at the joint, winking at me. A little tOO blistery and full of fluid to be a typical hive, and an angrier red at the base than most hives, but it certainly itches like a hive. But my bteathing remains fine and there are no other signs of allergic reaction. We sit at the dining room table together and she touches a few of them.

No way. The Merck Manual of Mediallinfor. A very gruesome photogrnph. A bumper crop of blebs. Beverly raises her eyebrows. She turns the IxxJk around to show me the photograph. That sure is what I look like.

Not me. Measles at four, German measles and mumps just before turning seventeen, catching both in the same grim May of , but not chicken pox. Beverly and 1 study our medical IxxJks. Descriptions of chicken pox in adults are alarming. I close the IxxJk and realize that I must not be thinking clearly. For twelve hours, my case seems mild. This is plausible. My doctor long ago described the state of my immune system as erratic. Parts of it fail to function, other parts fail to stop functioning.

So at the outset, we can believe that the hyperactive pan of my immune system is subduing the varicella roster virus. Stop writing about your mother already! No, no, I know illness is not a metaphor. I have read my Susan Sontag. This has nothing to do with being haunted by the taints of childhood. This is a virus. We are not born immune to infectiOns; we acquire immunity as part of the process by which we survive infections.

Childhood infections such as diphtheria, whooping cough, or polio were routinely fatal until medical science learned to induce immunity by immunization. As the first day progresses, proliferating blisters begin colonizing my torso, arms and legs.

I feel their spread as a flaming tautness across my face and back. A Crop of Blebs! A Storm of Vesicles! I get them in my mouth, ears, nose, throat. On my eyelids. My, um, organs of elimination and procreation. I feel terrific. Strong, clear in the head, capable offocusing. A minor miracle. As though, jolted by the invasion of varicella zoster virus, my defenses became less scattered and erratic, pulled together by the challenge.

The healing process remains essentially mysterious. It is, to some, a kind of warfare in which invaders viruses, bacteria, toxins must be defeated by the combination of bodily defenses and medical reinforcements drugs, surgery. Still others approach healing by trying to correct their attitudes or their way of life, or by prayer, by pilgrimage, appeasement. Or by a combination of all these approaches. All of the above, plus writing. I have spent fifteen years chronicling the ebb and flow of relapse and remission, the juncture where healing and managing illness meet.

Now, in the ethereal zone of this sudden, pox-induced remission, I decide that the time has come to stop writing about illness. Telling this enigmatic story has brought me to a kind of clarity: having written about getting sick and finding my way back toward a stable state, having dealt with the ongoing fluctuations that make my stable state so volatile, my task must be to get on to other things.

Not to focus on the minute adjustments or variations in my day-to-day health, or on the isolation that illness produces, but on what I encounter out there in the world. On the community and the flow of life from which I so easily become disconnected. Otherwise, obsessed with illness, I remain its hostage. Like the virus that seems to have set me straight for a while, the world outside works its mysteries on me too. I have ignored that for too long, caught in the timeless stasis ofchronic illness.

I can walk a mile again, provided I walk on the flat land below rather than the hillside where we live. He wears thick goggles that sparkle in the sun, a bushy mustache and a gleaming smile. A Nash the color of glazed brick pulls up behind him and toots its horn, the driver waving a gloved hand. In the passenger seat, a woman is all but hidden behind a floppy turquoise hat.

Another vintage car? Theodore Roosevelt? In the small village park across from the cemetery, more than a hundred cars are crammed together. Beverly and I stroll among the drivers, finding ourselves caught up in the spirit of passionate play. Beverly and I walked around the park for most of an hour, smiling. Back home, I begin an essay about the year What was going on around me during that pivotal year in my life, when I was ten and everything I knew began to change.

The essay came quickly, which is unusual for me. Then I wrote an essay about the cities and villages where my four immigrant grandparents came from, and an essay about Achill Island, off the west coast oflreland, where Beverly and I spent the summer of The outward-looking focus of this new work, each essay a chapter of a SUllllller Skloo!

I fdc myself heading in a new and promising direction. Then I had anocher relapse. She can see all the ocher people in their cars having conversations. Some of them are smiling and laughing with each other while they drive. She notices most cars have a man and a woman inside. Perhaps they all had the same frightening dream and are terrified to be alone. It appears Jane is only sitting still, doing nothing, but really she is breathing in the heat with a sense of amazement and fear.

This is the kind of heat that kills people, she thinks, this kind of heat is therefore murderous. A brown dog comes up to her, tentatively, and licks her tennis shoes. She acknowledges it in the same way she does anything latelywithout reason or any practical explanation. The dog follows her to the car where it climbs inside, seules in, and looks Out the window. It seems to be part of the rental car. This red two, door Nissan with its sunroof seems more like the kind ofcar a person would die in, rather than the white Honda Civic her husband had been driving.

When she first saw the rental she thought it was a joke they were playing on her, giving her a car that others zip around in, or crash into things with, or kill people with. When she left Chi, cago yesterday she bought a pack of cigareues and she drives and smokes one now without any sort of satisfaction.

She quit smoking with her husband last year because he wanted to lead a healthy lifestyle involving vegetable smoothies and no addictions. She knows all about the last time she saw him. It was May 3. It was Wednesday.

The days that come after are without label or category and they have absolutely nothing to do with time. Jane misses the car she shared with her husband and she misses sitting next to him in the car changing the radio stations or touching the back of his neck. Jane hopes the feeling of grief will completely overtake her and kill her.

The dog next to her has no collar or apparent expectations. As Jane drives she feels she can see the exact distances between things: from tree to tree, from cloud to cloud. Everything seems to be connected by thin, translucent lines of white. A few miles outside of Fort Worth the billboards begin to appear. The photo of Elise is so big, her monstrous eyes looking down at all the people. At her side is a short man wearing a cowboy hat, holding his hand up in a wave.

So many people drove around in their cars, listening to Elise, their eyes catching her eyes, when they glanced up. Before this she lived in California and read the news for a syndicated morning show where the DJs played practical jokes on each other and gave out free cars to callers who answered questions correctly. When Elise tells Jane about her fame and success Jane only feels slightly sorry for her, because Elise is alone and often lonely, and she has a lot of money that she uses to buy silly, unimportant things.

Jane finds a call box on a wooden post in a bed of yellow flowers. She waves at Jane. The heat immediately hurts her face and makes her eyes water. A car comes in, the gate opens slowly, and the dog walks confidently through the gate and away. She can feel it in her lungs, pumping intO her blood. Jane feels like crying because the dog rode all this way with her and now just leaves.

I kept it all in there. I even kept the paintings on the walls and the decorations and trinkets. I left it all there for the next couple! She is thinking about a woman who looks just like her, lounging on the couch, and a man who looks just like her husband, flipping through channels on the television. Elise looks at her, troubled. I left the hotel at five a. They are strong and make a variety of angles. Everything seems to be connected by these lines except for her and Elise.

They are walking beneath and through these lines, affecting nothing. Elise shows Jane the apartment proudly, taking her from room to room. On the ceiling are clouds and around the light in the center is a sun with wild orange and red flames. Jane drops her bags on the floor. The sisters are nine years apart. Often something breaks down when they try to communicate and they confuse each other in conversation. All Jane knows about her niece is that she likes to paint.

The words float, meaningless, above their heads. The living room has large glass doors that open up to a patio where people can sit and do things. The view is of the parking lot and all the apartments on the other side of the parking lot. Jane sees a woman on her bal; cony, sitting in a chair with her feet up. She is surrounded by plants and is reading a large novel. He is sitting at his dining room table, eating a sandwich by himself. The cities are only fifteen minutes apart, Elise explains later, but they are completely different.

She watches television or looks Ollt the windows. The first day she stares at jeopardy! What about the deaf, she thinks, but then she stops thinking about the deaf. Elise has to be at work at four every morning. This is wildly insane to Jane, who normally goes to sleep around that time. Elise comes home at two every day and drops her bags and keys on the table and hurries to the kitchen where she eats a salad with cucumbers and radishes.

Jane sees plenty of photographs of teenagers who die in car accidents and also many old people who die of natural causes or people in their forties who die after battling some illness. All these people around her are alive. When Elise goes to sleep Jane wanders around, walking down the middle of the parking lot, which is a half mile loop around the complex. Cats move around with heavy tails and large paws. When Jane looks at them they dash beneath cars or around dark corners.

The pool at night is the color of the sky at day. She watches people having parties on fifth floor balconies, crowded together drinking bottles of beer. Sometimes these people split into pairs and walk hand in hand to the hot tub, which is beneath an alcove of vines.

The water is the color of steam. Jane can see the skyline of downtown Fort Worth, which is only a mile or so away. Each building outlined with such a pleasant line of light. When Jane looks through the black gate she can see cars passing each other, slowly driving into town or slowly driving away.

This seems to be a city where no one ever really has to do anything, which makes it easier for Jane to ignore time. The temperature is always exactly the same and there is no process she needs to be a part of. Elise is very aware of time. Every day Elise entertains thousands of people as they drive to work in the mornings, and she grows stronger every day as she works out in the gym, and her tan is constantly fresh and golden, and her muscles are always soothed from the laps she swims in the pool, and her apartment is always well kept, with fresh flowers, and plump pillows on the sofa, and the faint smell of lavender.

Jane feels uncomfortable in the blue bedroom with the strange shadows of a little girl. If she holds still long enough in bed she falls into a sort of trance, where she thinks about the space her husband took up when he was standing in the house or in the universe overall, and how, Summer 49 Shearer when she was near that space, she was part of the heat his Ixx:fy generated, and part of the disruption his energy created. People in their cars listen to Elise and laugh at her stories and her jokes.

Maybe some of them are listening to her voice when they die. This is one of the great privileges of being alive, Jane thinks, the ability to be a part of the entire order of things. Elise is in the kitchen cooking dinner for the three of them. Jane has been setting the table very slowly, taking long breaks to look out the glass doors that lead to the balcony.

Elise is telling Jane about the man she is seeing, an ophthalmologist. He performs fifteen lasic surgeries every day and he tells Elise stories about people who cry to him with happiness because of all the things they can see. She sits on the couch and puts her hands over her face. I want to go to my room. I need to go to my room. Elise looks like she might cry as well. Jane decides to help Elise cut up some vegetables for a salad. She concentrates on the carrots, and the cucumbers, and the fresh parsley.

She is only standing here, chopping vegetables. She is only standing in this kitchen cutting things into smaller parts. Elise is taking deep breaths while she leans over a cookbook reading a recipe to herself. Jane knows what Elise is thinking. Elise has said it before, to Jane, shortly after the accident.

Megan comes ou[ of the bedroom and stands in the kitchen. She is wearing a lot of little pink plastic bracelets that clink together as she runs her hand over the edges of the counters. Her eyes are lined in red and her face is swollen. I have to ask you something. Her eyes begin [0 fill with tears again.

Especially at times like this. Jane stands in berween them cutting the vegetables, feeling like the opposite of the two of them, with no color [0 her skin. She turns the water on in the sink, running her hands under it, waiting. When the hot steam comes billowing up from the sink she starts washing the dishes quickly, scrubbing out the mixing bowls with a plastic brush. If you really, really love Him, and I want to help you realize how much Jesus loves you. During dinner Megan explains her love for Jesus.

Jane has no idea what to say to this girl. When Megan speaks about God her face becomes calm and commanding. Elise keeps trying to change the subject, but Megan is talking quickly, with more and more enthusiasm. Jane concentrates on her food because Megan is getting [Q the part about heaven. He made a poor choice in his life.

Now get to your room! She looks at Jane and Elise. Jane thinks of her beneath the blue sky and the painted sun, praying. Jane used to be nervous whenever she thought about the Bible and God and the people who love Jesus. They brought her to retreats, to Bible studies, to Sunday school.

At first r thought it was only a phase. She only feels irritated that the little girl believes there is a grand plan and all the people down below are moving along, reciting lines. She finds a parking garage, then walks up and down the ciry blocks. She sees a park with a giant sculpture of a man holding a briefcase and wearing a cowboy hat.

Some tourists are gathering around taking pictures. She sees old women who are so tan their skin is folded over on itself. Policemen on horses nod at the citizens who are sitting outside of restaurants drinking margaritas. Women wearing bikini tops walk down the street holding purses. There seems to be an art festival in the park in the middle of it all. There are some paintings of horses, American flags, or buffalo. A man sitting in a rocking chair is wearing a plaid shirt and a cowboy hat.

A woman next to him is smoking a cigar and fanning herself with her hand. The girls are wearing pastel tube tops and some of them are sunburned. The boys are wearing t-shirts with the names of places on them. He has a mustache and his eyes are clear blue and glittering. He has a thick, white mustache. Jane wakes up on the couch to the sound of clattering dishes. Elise has told Jane all kinds of stories alx Ut the men who have slept in this bed with her.

Jane tries not to think about the cowboys between these sheets with her sister. When she wakes up the apartment is empty. She looks in the closet, inside the boxes, and sees more crosses, more clutter. She tries not to look for too long. On the bed is a Bible with an index card resting on top of it. Jane picks it up, reading the handwritten words: Acts To open their eyes, and to tum them from darkness to ligllt, and from tile power of Satan unto God, may receive forgiveness of sins.

She wants to go swimming. In the corner is a basket with fifteen or twenty swimsuits-the tops mixed up with the bottoms, strings curling around each other. Finally she finds a one,piece and goes to the bathroom to put it on.

Elise has a row of six candles thar are all purple. She has her necklaces hanging in pretty lines. Jane thinks of all the single people who spend time looking at themselves and all the married people who spend time looking at each other.

The suit firs nicely and she finds a beach rowel in the living room closet, which was spectacular in its organization. At the pool a man is reading a book about the LSATs and a woman is on her stomach with a spray bottle of baby oil at her side.

Jane takes careful breaths because her lungs resist the heat. A country song is playing from somewhere. Jane looks around for a while until she sees a speaker designed to look like a rock, sitting in a flowerbed. You know he wants Summer 53 Shearer to!

She puts her feet into the water. She is swearing, but now her feet are freezing, and she gets a strange sensation of being in two places at once. The baby pushes the alligator at her and Jane grabs its nose and pushes it back towards the baby, who smiles. She would probably tell Jane the baby was doomed.

She goes under and can only manage to swim a few laps before she needs to take a break. She dives in and begins to swim effortless, graceful laps. Look around! Is this nOt like a vacation? Elise spreads her towel next to Jane. In the Stockyards? She remembers reading about it in the newspaper. She hit her head and died in the sand. Jane likes this story because she thinks an entertaining rule for the world would be that everyone gets a photograph of what will kill them.

The streets are made of dirt down there. It gets pretty wild at night. All I really have to do is introduce the band. She has never thought about his being alive right now. She only thinks about the time when he was alive, and the time when he was dead. When you think about him, I mean. What do you think about? About how there are so many billions of people. She can hear the sound of Megan swimming and then she can hear her breathing when she comes up to the edge to rest.

Megan is probably thanking Jesus for this day. Jane sees these days and wants to hold them to the light. She wishes she could see through them, to the other side, at whatever must be there. That night Jane sees her sister on stage. Elise says hello to the crowd who all cheer wildly for her.

Jane is getting used to the taste of Shiner. The people in Texas are very proud and this beer is one of the many things they are proud of. Elise is dancing with a tall man wearing tight jeans and cowboy boots and a large belt buckle. Jane smokes a cigarette and drinks her beer, watching the dance floor until a man comes up and asks her what her name is. We just got married. Emotion, lately, confuses Jane.

She saw a commercial for Bayer aspirin yesterday where an old woman in sweat pants was clutching her knees in agony. When she tries to imagine her future the thoughts turn around and come right back to her--out and back, over and over, until Jane gives up and avoids any ideas of her life outside this place. In the morning Jane and Elise are sipping mimosas and reading the newspaper. Megan comes home from church wearing a white dress with a collar oflace.

She looks like a small doll. Megan sits down and helps herself to some fruit salad. He could hardly walk. Someone had to help him in and out of the door.

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Implied odds are the conversion of a sportsbooks offered odds into an implied win probability. A spread bet in football is normally offered at on both sides of the bet. This gives both outcomes a win probability of The implied probability of this spread bet winning would be Let's use the above bet of for both outcomes on a NFL spread bet. We know that both outcomes have an implied probability of If that same outcome has a true probability of This seems easy, but how do you find true odds?

Essentially, true odds are subjective. However, one person can calculate true probability by using predictive models. This is where handicapping comes into play. Example Game: Tennessee Titans vs. Bills game at even odds. By using our odds calculator, you can calculate the implied probability of either team winning. Since the same odds are offered for the Bills to win, the implied probability for the Bills to win are What can you do with this information?

If you are able to calculate true probability, you can use those odds to make an informed decision on who to bet on. These are listed below: What are implied odds? What are true odds? Implied odds and true odds are important in determining if you are making a bet that has good value.

You can use our odds calculator above to calculate the implied odds of a given bet as long as you know the odds of the bet. Implied odds are the conversion of a sportsbooks offered odds into an implied win probability. A spread bet in football is normally offered at on both sides of the bet. This gives both outcomes a win probability of The implied probability of this spread bet winning would be Let's use the above bet of for both outcomes on a NFL spread bet.

We know that both outcomes have an implied probability of If that same outcome has a true probability of This seems easy, but how do you find true odds? Essentially, true odds are subjective. However, one person can calculate true probability by using predictive models.

This is where handicapping comes into play. Example Game: Tennessee Titans vs. Bills game at even odds.

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