“It’s five twenty-two p.m. and thirty-three seconds now,” Gabe said, not even looking at his watch. “Thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six…” He turned to Lou. “You get the idea.”

“So?” Lou stood up and put on his suit jacket and caught a glimpse at his watch to make sure. It was five twenty-two, on the nose.

“You have to leave now, don’t you?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

Gabe wandered over to Lou’s side and picked up three pieces of fruit from the bowl there—two oranges and an apple—which he inspected closely, one by one. “Decisions, decisions,” he said. He held the three pieces of fruit in his hands.

“Hungry?” Lou asked, agitated.

“No,” Gabe laughed. “You any good at juggling?”

That same feeling struck Lou’s heart, and he realized exactly what it was that he didn’t like about Gabe. It was questions like that, statements and comments that pierced Lou somewhere other than where they should.

“You’d better get that,” Gabe added.

“Get what?”

Before Gabe could respond, the phone rang, and, despite his preferring Alison to screen his calls, he dove for it.

It was Ruth.

“Hi, honey.” He motioned to Gabe for privacy, but Gabe didn’t leave and began juggling the fruit instead. Lou turned his back, and then, feeling uncomfortable with Gabe behind him, he faced forward again to keep an eye on his visitor. He lowered his voice. “Em, yeah, about tonight, something’s come up and—”

“Lou, don’t do this to me,” Ruth said.

“It’s just the play I won’t make, sweetheart.”

Gabe dropped the apple, which rolled across the carpet toward Lou’s desk, and continued juggling with the oranges. Lou felt a childish sense of satisfaction that Gabe had failed.

“Lucy’s heart will be broken,” Ruth said sadly.

“Lucy won’t even notice I’m not there, the place will be so dark. You can tell her I was there. Mr. Patterson asked me to meet with a client of ours. It’s a big deal, and it could help with my getting Cliff’s job, you know?”

“I know, I know. And then if you do get a promotion, you’ll be away from us even more. Anyway, I don’t want to get into this conversation now. So you’ll make it home for dinner? Your mum just rang on the phone saying how much she’s looking forward to it. You know, it’s already been a month since you’ve seen them.”

“It’s not been a month. I saw Dad just”—he went quiet while calculating the time in his head—“well, maybe it’s almost been a month.”

A month? How the time had flown. For Lou, visiting his parents was a chore, like making the bed. After he had not done it for some time, the sight of the untidy blankets would play on his mind until he went to get it over and done with. He’d feel an instant sense of satisfaction it had been completed. But then he’d wake up the next day and know he had to go and do it all over again. The thought of his father complaining about how long it’d been since Lou’s last visit made Lou want to run in the other direction. It made him feel guilty, but it also made him want to stay away longer.

“I might not make dinner, but I’ll be there for dessert. You have my word on that.”

Gabe dropped an orange, and Lou felt like punching his fist in the air in celebration. Instead, he pursed his lips and continued to make excuses to Ruth for everything, refusing to apologize for something that was totally out of his control. Lou finally hung up the phone and folded his arms across his chest.

“What’s so funny?” Gabe asked, throwing the one remaining orange up and down in his hand.

“Not such a good juggler, are you?” Lou smirked.

“Touché.” Gabe smiled. “You’re very observant. Indeed, I’m not a good juggler, but it’s not really juggling if I’d already chosen to drop those others and keep this one in my hand, is it?”

Lou frowned at the peculiar response and busied himself at his desk, putting on his overcoat and preparing to leave.

“No, Gabe, it’s certainly not juggling if you choose…” He stopped suddenly, realizing what he was saying and hearing Ruth’s voice in his head. His head snapped up, feeling that cold chill again, but Gabe was gone and the orange was left on his desk.

“Alison.” Lou marched out of his office with the orange in his hand. “Did Gabe just walk out of here?”

“Em…” she said slowly. “He came up to my desk about twenty minutes ago and—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know all that. He was in my office a second ago and then he was gone. Just now. Did he walk by?”

“Well, he must have, but—”

“Did you see him?”

“No, I was on the phone and—”

“Jesus.” He punched the desk, startling Alison. “By the way”—he dropped his voice and leaned in closer—“does any of my mail ever come to me under a different name?”

“What do you mean?” She frowned.

“You know—” He looked left and right and barely moved his lips as he spoke. “Aloysius,” he mumbled.

“Aloysius?” she said loudly.

He threw his eyes up. “Keep it down,” he hissed.

“No.” She lowered her voice. “I’ve never seen the name Aloysius on any of the mail.” Then she smiled, snorted, and started laughing. “Why the hell would there be Aloy—”

At his look, her words disappeared and her smile faded. “Oh. Oh dear. That’s a”—her voice went an octave higher—“lovely name.”

LOU WALKED ACROSS THE NEWLY constructed Seán O’Casey pedestrian bridge that linked the two rejuvenated north and south quays—the North Wall Quay and Sir John Rogerson’s Quay. One hundred meters across the bridge brought him to his destination, the Ferryman, the only authentic pub left on this stretch. It wasn’t a place for cappuccinos or ciabattas, and because of that the clientele was specific. The bar contained a handful of Christmas shoppers who’d wandered off the beaten track to take a break and to wrap their purple-fingered hands around heated glasses. The rest of the place was filled with workers, young and old, winding down after their day’s work. Suits filled the seats, pints and shorts filled the surfaces. It was just after six p.m., and people had already escaped the business district for their nearest place of solace, to worship at the altar of beers on tap.

Bruce Archer was one such person, propped at the bar with Guinness in hand, roaring with laughter over something somebody beside him had said. All around him were suits. Shoulder pads to shoulder pads. Pinstripes and polished shoes and briefcases containing spreadsheets, pie charts, and forward-looking market predictions. None of them were drinking coffee. Lou should have known. But as he watched them backslapping and laughing loudly, he wasn’t in the least bit surprised. So, really, he had known all along.

Bruce turned around and spotted him. “Lou!” he shouted across the room in his heavy Boston accent. “Lou Suffern! Good to see ya!” He stood from the stool, walked toward Lou with his hand extended, and then, gripping Lou’s hand firmly, pumped it up and down while thumping him enthusiastically on the back. “Let me introduce you to the guys. Guys, this is Lou, Lou Suffern, works at Patterson Developments…” And so Lou was lost in a sea of introductions, forgetting each name the second he heard it and pushing the image of his wife and daughter out of his head each time he shook a firm, clammy, or limp hand. He tried to forget that he had forsaken his family for this. He tried to forget as they pooh-poohed his order of coffee and instead filled him with beer, as they ignored his attempt to leave after one pint. Then after the second. And again after the third. Tired of a fight each time a round arrived, he let them change his order to a Jack Daniel’s, and as his cell phone rang he also let their adolescent jeers keep him from answering. And then, after all that, they needed to convince him no more. He was there with them for the long haul, with his phone on silent and vibrating every ten minutes with a call from Ruth. He knew at this point that Ruth would understand; if she didn’t, then she was an extremely unreasonable person.