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Show she is not here now. Things are tough enough as they are. At twenty-nine Morgan thinks he should know where he is going, but he does not. From the top of this ladder in South Dakota, he can see for miles; he can see Centerville and beyond that Beersford, and if it weren't for the curve of the earth he could see the Pacific Ocean. But he can not see tomorrow, can not focus on his future at all, and as he reaches above him with the white oily brush he can not keep from thinking that what he really needs is a good woman. When she arrives in the evening, Anne is wearing shorts and a halter top and Morgan can not get over the idea that she has dressed, or undressed, for him. Dave is out riding the horse and running the dogs, and the South Dakota sun is a fat orange disc on the horizon. Half a dozen beer cans are scattered on the ground at the base of the ladder. Except for the railing above the porch, the back of the house is done, and Morgan is pleased that for this at least there has been a plan, and that things are going according to it. Since noon he has painted with his shirt off. And now, sitting cross-legged in the deep grass, sun-darkened flesh covered with streaks and splotches of white, it seems exactly right to ask Anne to do him a favor, to clean off that part of his body he can not reach. They do not talk as she moves the cloth slowly over his back. The sun drops beneath the prairie, and Morgan begins to sense that there is another plan, one not of his own making, also in effect. Her hands are doing more than removing paint. They are |