tonight, not ever. I wanted my own ordinary, mass-produced Duster with its vinyl seatcovers and its dumb bumper-sticker reading MAFIA STAFF CAR.
The back porch light flicked on, and we saw Arnie cross toward the door in silhouette. He didn't even look like Arnie. His shoulders loped; his movements seemed older. I told myself it was only imagination, my suspicions working on me, and of course I was full of bullshit . . . and I knew it.
He opened the door and leaned out in an old flannel shirt and a pair of jeans. 'Dennis!' he said. 'My man!'
'Hi, Arnie,' I said.
'Hello, Mr Guilder.'
'Hi, Arnie,' my dad said, raising one gloved hand. 'How's it been going?'
'Well, you know, not that great. But that's all going to change, New year, new broom, out with the old shit, in with the new shit, right?'
'I guess so,' my father said, sounding a little taken aback. 'Dennis, are you sure you don't want me to come back and get you?'
I wanted that more than anything, but Arnie was looking at me and his mouth was still smiling but his eyes were flat and watchful. 'No, Arnie'll bring me home . . . if that rustbucket will start, that is?'
'Oh-oh, watch what you call my car,' Arnie said. 'She's very sensitive.'
'Is she?' I asked.
'She is,' Arnie said, smiling.
I turned my head and called, 'Sorry, Christine.'
'That's better.'
For a moment all three of us stood there, my father and I at the bottom of the kitchen steps. Arnie in the doorway above us, none of us apparently knowing what to say next. I felt a kind of panic - someone had to say something, or else the whole, ridiculous fiction that nothing had changed would collapse of its own weight.
'Well, okay,' my dad said at last. 'You two kids stay sober. If you have more than a couple of beers, Arnie, call me.'
'Don't worry, Mr Guilder.'
'We'll be all right,' I said, grinning a grin that felt plastic and false. 'You go on home and get your beauty sleep, Dad. You need it.'
'Oh-ho,' my father said. 'Watch what you call my face. It's very sensitive.'
He went back to the car. I stood and watched him, my crutches propped into my armpits. I watched him while he crossed behind Christine. And when he backed out of the driveway and turned toward home, I felt a little bit better.
I banged the snow off the tip of each crutch carefully while standing in the doorway. The Cunninghams' kitchen was tile-floored. A couple of near accidents had taught me that on smooth surfaces a pair of crutches with wet snow on them can turn into ice-skates.
'You really operate on those babies,' Arnie said, watching me cross the floor. He took a pack of Tiparillos from the pocket of his flannel shirt, shook one out, bit down on the white plastic mouthpiece, and lit it with his head cocked to one side. The match flame played momentarily across his cheeks like yellow streaks of paint.
'It's a skill I'll be glad to lose,' I said. 'When did you start with the cigars?'
'Darnell's,' he said. 'I don't smoke em in front of my mother. The smell drives her bugshit.'
He didn't smoke like a kid who just learning the habit - he smoked like a man who has been doing it for twenty years.
'I thought I'd make popcorn,' he said. 'You up for that?'
'Sure. You got any beer?'
'That's affirmative. There's a six-pack in the fridge and two more downstairs.'
'Great.' I sat down carefully at the kitchen table, stretching out my left leg. 'Where're your folks?'
'Went to a New Year's Eve party at the Fassenbachs'. When's that cast come off?'
'Maybe at the end of January, if I'm lucky.' I waved my crutches in the air and cried dramatically, 'Tiny Tim walks again! God bless us, every one!'
Arnie, on his way to the stove with a deep pan, a bag of popcorn, and a bottle of Wesson Oil, laughed and shook his head. 'Same old Dennis. They didn't knock much of the stuffing out of you, you shitter.'
'You didn't exactly overwhelm me with visits in the hospital, Arnie.'
'I brought you Thanksgiving supper - what the hell do you want, blood?'
I shrugged.
Arnie sighed. 'Sometimes I think you were my good-luck charm, Dennis.'
'Off my case, hose-head.'
'No, seriously. I've been in hot water ever since you broke your wishbones, and I'm still in hot water. It's a wonder I don't look like a lobster.' He laughed heartily. It was not the sound