THE HUNDRED-AND-FORTIETH PAGE

He must have been drunk, rambling senselessly like one of the village locals who communed in a daily dialogue with some Catskill deity. Before dropping the phone and then finding the cradle to break the connection, he mangled part of a Frost poem, saying he didn’t think ice (more like ace) was nice (nace) and that farr would suffice. I admired his literary attempt, again wishing he had shown a bit of his feeble erudition in publication of my book.

Drunk or not, My Editor terrified me with what I could make out of his crazy threats. Drunk or crazy was probably worse than sober or sane.

I put down the phone as carefully as he had bungled his attempt, because my hand was shaking so badly the phone could have missed its landing.

The dog padded around behind me as I strategically placed the candles at their stations downstairs. The dog retired to his ottoman position in front of the couch as I made my way upstairs to the bedroom.

Before turning out the light, I rearranged a couple of stacks of books and moved the bed from under the skylight toward a side where I felt less vulnerable. For all I knew, in the dead of night My Editor could come whizzing over the house astride his magic whirlybird.