She showered after she heard the door shut and the cars pull out of the driveway. He did not move. She was no longer there. She took his hand in hers. Treat me as an elder brother, if you like. She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook. One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing. “We were good friends in Paris, weren’t we? You made me all sorts of promises, we planned no end of nice things, and then—without a word to any one you disappeared.
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