rds had been； but he couldn't ditch it。 He saw them screwing in his and Donna's bedroom。 Screwing in their bed。 What he saw in this mind…movie was every bit as explicit as one of those grainy X…rated pictures you see at the State Theater on Congress Street。 She was groaning； sheened lightly with perspiration； beautiful。 Every muscle pulled taut。 Her eyes had that hungry look they got when the sex was good； their color darker。 He knew the expression； he knew the posture； he knew the sounds。 He had thought … thought … he was the only one who did。 Not even her mother and father would know about that。
Then he would think of the man's penis … his cock … going up inside her。 In the saddle； that phrase came and clanged in his mind idiotically； refusing to die away。 He saw them screwing to a Gene Autry soundtrack： I'm back in the saddle again； out where a friend is a friend。。。。
It made him feel creepy。 It made him feel outraged。 It made him feel infuriated。
The Frisbee soared and came down。 Vic followed its course。
He had suspected something； yes。 But suspecting was not like knowing； he knew that now； if nothing else。 He could write an essay on the difference between suspecting and knowing。 What made it doubly cruel was the fact that he had really begun to believe that the suspicions were groundless。 And even if they weren't； what you didn't know couldn't hurt you。 Wasn't that right？ If a man is crossing a darkened room with a deep； open hole in the middle of it； and if he passes within inches of it； he doesn't need to know he almost fell in。 There is no need for fear。 Not if the lights are off。
Well； he hadn't fallen in。 He had been pushed。 The question was； What was he going to do about it？ The angry part of him； hurt； bruised； and bellowing； was not in the slightest inclined to be 'adult'； to acknowledge that there were slips on one or both sides in a great many marriages。 Fuck the Penthouse Forum； or Variations； or whatever they're calling it these days； that's my wife we're talking about； she was screwing someone
（out where a friend is a friend）
when my back was turned； when Tad was out of the house The images began to unreel again； crumpled sheets； straining bodies； soft sounds。 Ugly phrases； terrible terms kept crowding up like a bunch of freaks looking at an accident： nooky； hair pie； put the boots to her； shot my load； I…don't…fuck…for…fortune…and…I…don't…fuck…for…fame…but…the…way…l…fuck…ya…mamma…is…a…goddam…shame； my turtle in your mud； bank for the gang； stoop for the troops Inside my wife！ he thought； agonized； hands clenching。 Inside my wife！
But the angry； hurt part acknowledged … grudgingly that he couldn't go home and beat the hell out of Donna。 He could； however； take Tad and go。 Never mind the explanations。 Let her try and stop him； if she had cheek enough to do it。 He didn't think she would。 Take Tad； go to a motel； get a lawyer。 Cut the cord cleanly； and don't look back。
But if he just grabbed Tad and took him to a motel； wouldn't the boy be frightened？ Wouldn't he want an explanation？ He was only four； but that was old enough to know when something was badly； frighteningly wrong。 Then there was the matter of the trip … Boston； New York； Cleveland。 Vic didn't give a goddam about the trip； not now； old man Sharp and his kid could take a flying jump at the moon for all he cared。 But he wasn't in it alone。 He had a partner。 The partner had a wife and two kids。 Even now； hurting as badly as he was； Vic recognized his responsibility to at least go through the motions of trying to save the account … which was tantamount to trying to save Ad Worx itself。
And although he didn't want to ask it； there was another question： Exactly why did he want to take Tad and go； without even hearing her side of the story？ Because her sleeping around was wrecking Tad's morals？ He didn't think so。 It was because his mind had immediately seized upon the fact that the way to hurt her most surely and most deeply （as deeply as he hurt right now） was through Tad。 But did he want to turn his son into the emotional equivalent of a crowbar； or a sledgehammer？ He thought not。
Other questions。
The note。 Think about the note for a minute。 Not Just what it said； not just those six lines of battery…acid filth； think about the fact of the note。 Someone had just killed the goose that had been … pardon the pun … laying the golden eggs。 Why had Donna's lover sent that note？
Because the goose was no longer laying； of course。 And the shadow man who had sent the note was mad as hell。
Had Donna dumped the guy？
He tried to see it any other way and couldn't。 Stripped of its sudden； shocking force； wasn't I ENJOYED FUCKING THE SHIT OUT OF HER the classic dog…in…the…manger ploy？ If you can't have it any more； piss on it so no one else will want it either。 Illogical； but ah so satisfying。 The new； easier atmosphere at home fit into that reading； as well。 The almost palpable sense of relief Donna radiated。 She had turned the shadow man out； and the shadow man had hit back at her husband with the anonymous note。
Last question： Did it make any difference？
He took the note out of his jacket pocket again and turned it over and over in his hands； not unfolding it。 He watched the red Frisbee float across the sky and wondered what the hell he was going to do。
'What the Christ is that？' Joe Camber asked。
Each word came out spaced； almost inflectionless。 He stood in the doorway； looking at his wife。 Charity was setting his place。 She and Brett had already eaten。 Joe had e in with a truckful of odds and ends； had begun to drive into the garage； and had seen what was waiting for him。
'It's a chainfall；' she said。 She had sent Brett over to play with his buddy Dave Bergeron for the evening。 She didn't want him around if this went badly。 'Brett said you wanted one。 A Jorgen chainfall； he said。'
Joe crossed the room。 He was a thin man with a scrawny…strong physique； a big blade nose； and a quiet； agile way of walking。 Now his green felt hat was tipped back on his head to show his receding hairline。 There was a smudge of grease on his forehead。 There was beer on his breath。 His blue eyes were small and hard。 He was a man who didn't like surprises。
'You talk to me； Charity；' he said。
'Sit down。 Your supper will get cold。'
His arm shot out like a piston。 Hard fingers bit into her arm。 'What the fuck are you up to？ Talk to me； I said。'
'Don't curse at me； Joe Camber。' He was hurting her badly； but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing it in her face or in her eyes。 He was like a beast in many ways； and although this had excited her when she was young； it excited her no longer。 She had recognized over the course of their years together that she could sometimes gain the upper hand just by seeming brave。 Not always； but sometimes。
'You tell me what the fuck you been up to； Charity！'
'Sit down and eat；' she said quietly； 'and I will。'
He sat down and she brought his plate。 There was a sirloin steak on it。
'Since when can we afford to eat like the Rockefellers？' he asked。 'You got some pretty tall explaining to do； I'd say。'
She brought his coffee and a split baked potato。 'Can't you use the chainfall？'
'Never said I couldn't use it。 But I damn well can't afford it。' He began to eat； his eyes never leaving her。 He wouldn't hit her now； she knew。 This was her chance； while he was still relatively sober。 If he was going to hit her； it would be after he came back from Gary Pervier's； sloshing with vodka and filled with wounded male pride。
Charity sat down across from him and said； 'I won the lottery。'
His jaws halted and then began moving again。 He forked steak into his mouth。 'Sure；' he said。 'And tomorrow ole Cujo out there's gonna shit a mess of gold buttons。' He pointed his fork at the dog； who was pacing restlessly up and down the porch。 Brett didn't like to take him over to the Bergerons' because they had rabbits in a hutch and they drove Cujo wild。
Charity reached into her apron pocket； took out her copy of the prize claim form that the agent had filled out； and handed it across the table to Joe。
Camber flattened the paper out with one blunt…fingered hand and stared it up and down。 His eyes centred on the figure。 'Five …' He began； and then shut h