They were in three cardboard cartons, each crisp with the smell of mothballs. Charlie’s shirts and pants and sweaters, even Charlie’s Hanes underwear. He took them out and looked at each item carefully, trying to imagine Charlie wearing these things, moving in them, rearranging minor parts of the world in them. At last it was the smell of the mothballs that drove him out of the attic, shaking and grimacing, needing a drink. The smell of things that had lain quietly and uselessly over the years, things which had no purpose but to hurt. He thought about them for most of the evening, until the drink blotted out the ability to think.

The doorbell rang at quarter past ten and when he opened the front door, a man in a suit and a topcoat was standing there, sort of hipshot and slouched and friendly. He was neatly shaved and barbered, carrying a slim briefcase, and at first he thought the man was a salesman with a briefcase full of samples-Amway, or magazine subscriptions, or possibly even the larcenous Swipe-and he prepared to welcome the man in, to listen to his pitch carefully, to ask questions, and maybe even buy something. Except for Olivia, he was the first person who had come to the house since Mary left almost five weeks ago.

But the man wasn’t a salesman. He was a lawyer. His name was Philip T. Fenner, and his client was the city council. These facts he announced with a shy grin and a hearty handshake.

“Come on in,” he said, and sighed. He supposed that in a half-assed sort of way, this guy was a salesman. You might even say he was selling Swipe.

Fenner was talking away, a mile a minute.

“Beautiful house you have here. Just beautiful. Careful ownership always shows, that’s what I say. I won’t take up much of your time, Mr. Dawes, I know you’re a busy man, but Jack Gordon thought I might as well swing out here since it was on my way and drop off this relocation form. I imagine you mailed for one, but the Christmas rush and all, things get lost. And I’d be glad to answer any questions you might have, of course.”

“I have a question,” he said, unsmiling.

The jolly exterior of his visitor slipped for a moment and he saw the real Fenner lurking behind it, as cold and mechanized as a Pulsar watch. “What would that be, Mr. Dawes?”

He smiled. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

Back on with the smiling Fenner, cheerful runner or city council errands. “Gee, that’d be nice, if it’s not too much trouble. A trifle nippy out there, only seventeen degrees. I think the winters have been getting colder, don’t you?”

“They sure have.” The water was still hot from his breakfast coffee. “Hope you don’t mind instant. My wife’s visiting her folks for a while, and I just sort of muddle along.”

Fenner laughed good-naturedly and he saw that Fenner knew exactly what the situation was between him and Mary, and probably what the situation was between him and any other given persons or institutions: Steve Ordner, Vinnie Mason, the corporation, God.

“Not at all, instant’s fine. I always drink instant. Can’t tell the difference. Okay to put some papers on this table?”

“Go right ahead. Do you take cream?”

“No, just black. Black is fine.” Fenner unbuttoned his topcoat but didn’t take it off. He swept it under him as he sat down, as a woman will sweep her skirt so she doesn’t wrinkle the back. In a man, the gesture was almost jarringly fastidious. He opened his briefcase and took out a stapled form that looked like an income tax return. He poured Fenner a cup of coffee and gave it to him.

“Thanks. Thanks very much. Join me?”

“I think I’ll have a drink,” he said.

“Uh-huh,” Fenner said, and smiled charmingly. He sipped his coffee. “Good, very good. Hits the spot.”

He made himself a tall drink and said, “Excuse me for just a minute, Mr. Fenner. I have to make a telephone call.”

“Certainly. Of course.” He sipped his coffee again and smacked his lips over it.

He went to the phone in the hall, leaving the door open. He dialed the Galloway house and Jean answered.

“It’s Bart,” he said, “Is Mary there, Jean?”

“She’s sleeping.” Jean’s voice was frosty.

“Please wake her up. It’s very important.”

“I bet it is. I just bet. I told Lester the other night, I said: Lester, it’s time we thought about an unlisted phone. And he agreed with me. We both think you’ve gone off your rocker, Barton Dawes, and that’s the plain truth with no shellack on it.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. But I really have to-”

The upstairs extension was picked up and Mary said, “Bart?”

“Yes. Mary, has a lawyer named Fenner been out to see you? Kind of slicktalking fellow that tries to act like Jimmy Stewart?”

“No,” she said. Shit, snake-eyes. Then she added, “He called on the phone.” Jackpot! Fenner was standing in the doorway now, holding his coffee and sipping it calmly. The half-shy, totally cheerful, aw-shucks expression was gone now. He looked rather pained.

“Mamma, get off the extension,” Mary said, and Jean Galloway hung up with a bitter snort.

“Was he asking about me?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“He talked to you after the party?”

“Yes, but… I didn’t tell him anything about that.”

“You might have told him more than you know. He comes on like a sleepy tickhound, but he’s the city council’s ballcutter.” He smiled at Fenner, who thinly smiled back. “You’ve got an appointment with him?”

“Why… yes.” She sounded surprised. “But he only wants to talk about the house, Bart-”

“No, that’s what he told you. He really wants to talk about me. I think these guys would like to drag me into a competency hearing.”

“A… what?…” She sounded utterly befuddled.

“I haven’t taken their money yet, ergo I must be crazy. Mary, do you remember what we talked about at Handy Andy’s?”

“Bart, is that Mr. Fenner in the house?”

“Yes.”

“The psychiatrist,” she said dully. “I mentioned you were going to be seeing a… oh, Bart, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he said softly, and meant it. “This is going to be all right, Mary. I swear. Maybe nothing else, but this is going to be all right.”

He hung up and turned to Fenner. “Want me to call Stephan Ordner?” he asked. “Vinnie Mason? I won’t bother with Ron Stone or Tom Granger, they’d recognize a cheap prick like you before you even had your briefcase unsnapped. But Vinnie wouldn’t and Ordner would welcome you with open arms. He’s on the prod for me.”

“You needn’t,” Fenner said. “You’ve misunderstood me, Mr. Dawes. And you’ve apparently misunderstood my clients. There is nothing personal in this. No one is out to get you. But there has been an awareness for some time that you dislike the 784 extension. You wrote a letter to the paper last August-”

“Last August,” he marveled. “You people have a clipping service, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

He went into a harried crouch, rolling his eyeballs fearfully. “More clippings! More lawyers! Ron, go out and snow those reporters! We have enemies everywhere. Mavis, bring me my pills!” He straightened up. “Paranoia, anyone? Christ, I thought I was bad.”

“We also have a public-relations staff,” Fenner said stiffly. “We are not nickle-and-diming here, Mr. Dawes. We are talking about a ten-million-dollar project.”

He shook his head, disgusted. “They ought to hold a competency hearing on you road guys, not me.”

Fenner said: “I’m going to lay all my cards on the table, Mr. Dawes.”

“You know, it’s been my experience that when anybody says that they’re ready to stop screwing around with the little lies and they’re about to tell a real whopper.”

Fenner flushed, finally angry. “You wrote the newspaper. You dragged your heels on finding a new plant for the Blue Ribbon Laundry and finally got canned-

“I didn’t. I resigned at least a half an hour before they could pink me.”