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it?”
    â€œSure.”
    O’Farrell felt a sweep of helplessness but decided against pressing any further. Maybe he shouldn’t have tried at all. He hadn’t suggested to Ellen that he should discuss it with the child; perhaps there was some established way of talking it through—something evolved by a child psychiatrist—and he was being counterproductive by mentioning it at all. He felt another sweep of helplessness.
    O’Farrell considered stopping at the service station on the way back to Ellen’s apartment, but decided against it; there did not seem to be any point. The women were already home, hunched over more coffee cups at the kitchen table with the debris of a sandwich lunch between them.
    â€œSteak for dinner, courtesy of Grandma!” Ellen announced as they entered.
    â€œGreat!” Billy said. “I got a new spaceship! Look!
    â€œGramps bought it for me. And a vanilla ice cream with a chocolate top!”
    â€œLooks like our time for being spoiled, Billy boy,” Ellen said.
    The child scurried into the living room to locate the previous toy and begin a galactic battle; almost at once there came lots of boom, boom, booms and a noise that sounded something like a throat clearing.
    O’Farrell said, “Your car’s in the garage.”
    â€œYou had an accident!”
    His daughter’s instant response caused a burn of annoyance. Never get mad, always stay cool, he thought. He said, “I could have. It’s a miracle you haven’t. That car’s a wreck: at least five thousand miles over any service limit! Didn’t you know that?”
    â€œBeen busy,” said Ellen. She spoke looking down, her bottom lip nipped between her teeth, and O’Farrell recognized the expression from when she’d been young and been caught doing something wrong.
    â€œDarling!” he said, perfectly in control but trying to sound outraged despite that, wanting to get through to her. “On at least one wheel, possibly two, there are scarcely any brake shoes left at all. Which is hardly important anyway because there was no fluid in the drum to operate them anyway. Two plugs aren’t operating at all, your engine is virtually dry of oil, and the carburetor is so corroded the cover has actually split. Both your left tires, front and back, are shiny bald, and your alignment is so far out on the front that any new tire would be that way inside a month.”
    â€œIntended to get it fixed right away,” Ellen said, head still downcast. “The brakes are okay, providing you know how to work them.”
    â€œThat car’s a deathtrap and you know it!” O’Farrell insisted. “So when was it last in the shop?”
    â€œCan’t remember,” Ellen said, stilted still.
    â€œIt hasn’t been serviced, has it? Not for months!”
    â€œNo.”
    There was a loud silence in the tiny kitchen. Remembering something else, O’Farrell said, “What about Patrick?”
    â€œWhat about Patrick?” his daughter echoed.
    â€œYou told him about this scare at Billy’s school?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œBecause that’s all it is, a scare,” Ellen said. “Nothing’s happened to Billy.”
    Don’t be sidetracked, thought O’Farrell. “Patrick’s got visitation rights, hasn’t he?”
    â€œYou know he has.”
    â€œTell me the custody arrangement.”
    â€œYou know the custody arrangement!” Ellen said angrily.
    â€œTell me!”
    â€œAlternative weekends,” Ellen said. “Vacation by arrangement.”
    â€œSo Billy was with his father last weekend?”
    â€œNo,” Ellen admitted tightly.
    â€œAnd the time before that?”
    â€œNo.” Tighter still.
    â€œWhy not?”
    A shrug.
    â€œWhy not!”
    â€œPatrick’s got problems; he got laid off.”
    â€œFrom the loan company?”
    Ellen shook her