"What!"

    "Read the Letter."

    "My God, Shar, you're kidding!"

    Chris pounced on the letter with eager eyes snapping up the words in hungry chunks: "... new script... a triptych... studio wants Sir Stephen Moore... accepting role provided---"

    "I direct his segment!"

    Chris flung up her arms, letting loose a hoarse, shrill cry of joy. Then with both her hands she cuddled the letter to her chest. "Oh, Steve,- you angel, you remembered!" Filming in Africa. Drunk. In camp chairs. Watching the blood-hush end of day. "Ah, the business is bunk! For the actor it's crap, Steve!"

    "Oh, I like it."

    "It's crap! Don't you know where it's at in this business? Directing!"

    "Ah, yes."

    "Then you've done something, something that's yours; I mean, something that lives!"

    "Well, then do it."

    "I've tried; they won't buy it."

    "Why not?"

    "Oh, come on, you know why: they don't think I can cut it." Warm remembrance. Warm smile. Dear Steve...

    "Mom, I can't find the dress!" Regan called from the landing.

    "In the closet!" Chris answered.

    "I looked!"

    "I'll be up in a second!" Chris called. For a moment she examined the script. Then gradually wilted. "So its probably crap."

    "Oh, come on, now. I really think it's good."

    "Oh, you thought Psycho needed a laugh track."

    Sharon laughed.

    "Mommy?"

    "I'm coming!"

    Chris got up slowly. "Got a date, Shar?"

    "Yes."

    Chris motioned at the mail. "You go on, then. We can catch all this stuff in the morning."

    Sharon got up.

    "Oh, no, wait," Chris amended, remembering something. "There's a letter that's got to go out tonight."

    "Oh, okay." The secretary reached for her dictation pad.

    "Moth-therrr!" A whine of impatience.

    "Wait'll I comes down," Chris told Sharon. She started to leave the kitchen, but stepped as Sharon eyed her watch.

    "Gee; it's time for me to meditate, Chris," she said.

    Chris looked at her narrowly with mute exasperation. In the last six mouths, she had watched her secretary suddenly turn "seeker after serenity." It had started in Los Angeles with self-hypnosis, which then yielded to Buddhistic chanting. During the last few weeks that Sharon was quartered in the room upstairs, the house had reeked of incense, and lifeless dronings of "Nam myoho renge kyo" ("See, you just keep on chanting that, Chris, just that, and you get your wish, you got everything you want...") were heard at unlikely and untimely hours, usually when Chris was studying her lines. "You can turn on TV," Sharon had generously told her employer on one of these occasions, "It's fine. I can chant when there's all kinds of noise. It won't bother me a bit." Now it was transcendental meditation.

    "You really think that kind of stuff is going to do you any good, Shar?" Chris asked tonelessly.

    "It gives me peace of mind," responded Sharon.

    "Right," Chris said dryly. She turned away and said good-night. She said nothing about the letter, and as she left the kitchen, she murmured, "Nam myoho renge kyo."

    "Keep it up about fifteen or twenty minutes," said Sharon. "Maybe for you it would work."

    Chris halted and considered a measured response. Then gave it up. She went upstairs to Regan's bedroom, moving immediately to the closet. Regan was standing in the middle of the room staring up at the ceiling.

    "What's doin'?" Chris asked her, hunting for the dress. It was a pale-blue cotton. She'd bought it the week before, and remembered hanging it in the closet.

    "Funny noises," said Regan.

    "I know. We've got friends."

    Regan looked at her. "Huh?"

    "Squirrels, honey; squirrels in the attic." her daughter was squeamish and terrified of rats. Even mice upset her.

    The hunt for the dress proved fruitless.

    "See, Mom, it's got there."

    "Yes, I see. Maybe Willie picked it up with the cleaning."

    "It's gone."

    "Yeah, well, put on the navy. It's pretty."

They went to the Hot Shoppe. Chris ate a salad while Regan had soup, four rolls, fried chicken, a chocolate shake, and a helping and a half of blueberry pie with coffee ice cream. Where does she put it, Chris wondered fondly, in her wrists? The child was slender as a fleeting hope.

    Chris lit a cigarette over her coffee and looked through the window on her right. The river was dark and currentless, waiting.

    "I enjoyed my dinner, Mom."

    Chris turned to her, and as often happened, caught her breath and felt again that ache on seeing Howard's image in Regan's face. It was the angle of the light. She dropped her glance to Regan's plate.

    "Going to leave that pie?" Chris asked her.

    Regan lowered her eyes. "I ate some candy."

    Chris stubbed out her cigarette and chuckled. "Let's go."

They were back before seven. Willie and Karl had already returned. Regan made a dash for the basement playroom, eager to finish the sculpture for her mother. Chris headed for the kitchen to pick up the script. She found Willie brewing coffee; coarse; open pot. She looked irritable and sullen.

    "Hi, Willie, how'd it go? Have a real nice time?"

    "Do not ask." She added an eggshell and a pinch of salt to the bubbling contents of the pot. They had gone to a movie, Willie explained. She had wanted to see the Beatles, but Karl had insisted on an art-house film about Mozart. "Terrible," she simmered as she lowered the flame. "That dumbhead!"