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Show 187 of a cartoon. And faintly, from the back yard, the sound of the girls, still playing hopscotch in the patio lights. "But this evening, I need one." He sucked hard on the cigarette, inhaling the smoke. This was certainly not like Oscar, to talk this much-he was trying, she sensed, in his great awkwardness, to say something. About tonight, about David. "I smoked heavy," he said, "for over ten years. Two packs a day. Then one day-wham-I quit. Just like that. I guess maybe to see if I could. That's been-what? seven, eight years ago?" He paused, suddenly realizing that with those words he had just spoken he had been priming himself, like water poured into a pump to draw water; his voice changed, he found his direction: "I guess I've got to ask you something. Again. Let's keep this from the girls and Katie. If we can." She found her own voice: "Of course." He leaned back against the counter, holding the cigarette before him, upright in his fingers like a pencil; he studied the smoke uncurling itself from the burning tip, as if it were script unfolding-which, if he were wise enough, he might interpret. "David and I," he finally said, "well, we have our differences. I can't understand him. The damn kid's a mystery to me. He isn't anything at all like I was when I was a kid. I just can't figure him out." "It's not so strange," Sharon suddenly said, her voice faltering, "to live around someone-for a long time-and have that person be a mystery to you." He looked at her closely, his eyes narrowing. He had sensed that she was talking about more than David, she avoided his eyes. "No," |