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Show Cardboard Sky-2 it like a man. He didn't flinch. I'm a family man without a family. Emily has our son and I do know where she is; she is living in Lawrence, Kansas, with a professor of creative writing who treats her badly. I get letters from a student of his who was once a student of mine, and who I think loved me, a cool clever girl who was on the rifle team at our college and knows how to come at a story from the blind side. I see Lawrence in my mind's eye as a little town of one-room cottages, surrounded by a wooden wall, set in the plain. Over it all hangs a paper moon. 2 I think some men are meant to live alone. I speak eight languages; I drive a yellow pickup with a cosmically powerful radio and knobby tires that howl; my analyst looks exactly like Shecky Greene; my son's name was David before Emily changed it to Bahai L'lal; if I drive the freeway full of folks at seventy miles an hour and turn up a Willie Nelson song loud enough I find it possible to believe in God. For three minutes, give or take ten seconds. On his secretary's desk, in the outer office, Tony Bill keeps a brass lamp shaped like a hula dancer; when the girl turns the light on the dancer swings her hips in a lazy dance. The |
