Bishop" and then at the photograph of David Attlee Phillips, it's just unmistakable, even though the guy who saw them together backed off from explicitly making the identification because he was scared shitless of the CIA.
"So the whole thing came out of Langley," says Willis. "What else is new."
"Langley?" says Champ. "You don't seriously believe headquarters is at fucking Langley, do you? Langley is the fucking cover.''
"Okay, so where's the real place?"
"Orlando. They got this whole like underground city underneath Disney World, right? Fifty thousand million people with their kids and shit walking around overhead, fat, dumb and happy," He teases out a strand of pasta, regards it, then drapes it over a piece of broccoli. "Nah, shit, how would / know? I don't want to fucking know. That kind of information could be very very dangerous to have." He whistles the little four-note Twilight Zone thing.
"You live with him," Willis says to Tina. "Does he really believe this stuff?"
"Hey, talk about me like I'm not here," says Champ.
"He gets off on it, I know that" she says.
Willis is pretty well hammered after his three martinis (officially two) plus wine with dinner, so he lets Jean drive them back to Preston Falls while he rides shotgun and plays deejay. Hot Country really is unlistenable, so he settles on a classical station—it's that Hovhaness piece of garbage that everybody likes because they're getting old and right wing. The Magic Mountain or whatever. Willis is smashed enough to where he finds himself enjoying the heU out of it. As they pull into the dooryard, he sees stars in the black sky above his own hilltop, and that is just about fucking perfect. He gets out of the Cherokee and stands there staring in shit-faced reverence.
Champ and Tina call good night. Yeah, yeah, good night.
Jean touches his arm. She came right out of nowhere. "I'm going up to bed."
"Good," he says. "That's good." And now Rathbone is here too, tail
wagging, Rathbone! Forgot he even existed! Rathbone races off and lifts his leg against the spooky white birch tree.
"This probably isn't the best time," Jean says. "But do you think you could give me a clue as to what's going on?"
"In what sense?" he says.
She goes Oh as if somebody knocked the wind out of her.
This tells Willis he'd better try and be lucid for a second.
"Look," he says. "We've been over this. It's like I've been in the wrong life."
"Well, do you have any conception of what your life properly is? I mean, is it really up here, driving a truck?''
"That's what I hope to figure out," he says. "In my big two months." But hey, Rathbone's back! Willis gets to his knees, roughs up Rathbone's neck and teUs him That's my boy.
"Something else you might want to figure out," says Jean. "What role, if any, do your children have in this real life of yours? Not to mention your wife. Have you given thought to any of that?"
"To my shame, no," he says.
"I'm not that interested in your shame," she says. "I know you find it fascinating."
"Hey, give the little lady a brass ring," he says. "The low blow award." He strokes Rathbone's silky side and stands up again. Reelin' and a-rockin', but basically okay.
"Oh, I'm sure you took it to heart," she says. "You've fixed it so nobody's even in the same universe with you. I don't know, I just truly worry about you. As someone who knows you."
"You know me very well."
"Oh, please," she says. And goes inside.
He sits down on the stepstone; Rathbone comes over, circles, then lies at Willis's feet sniffing the night air. There's the good old Big Dipper up there, the only constellation Willis knows. Or gives a rat's ass about. Light from the upstairs window makes a night-baseball-green parallelogram on the wet grass. Lawn needs mowing. Tomorrow, without fail.
Jean gets her nightgown from the closet, shoving aside old shirts of Willis's that he's put on hangers even though they're dirty. He'll wear them when he's working, sweat them through,
"So the whole thing came out of Langley," says Willis. "What else is new."
"Langley?" says Champ. "You don't seriously believe headquarters is at fucking Langley, do you? Langley is the fucking cover.''
"Okay, so where's the real place?"
"Orlando. They got this whole like underground city underneath Disney World, right? Fifty thousand million people with their kids and shit walking around overhead, fat, dumb and happy," He teases out a strand of pasta, regards it, then drapes it over a piece of broccoli. "Nah, shit, how would / know? I don't want to fucking know. That kind of information could be very very dangerous to have." He whistles the little four-note Twilight Zone thing.
"You live with him," Willis says to Tina. "Does he really believe this stuff?"
"Hey, talk about me like I'm not here," says Champ.
"He gets off on it, I know that" she says.
Willis is pretty well hammered after his three martinis (officially two) plus wine with dinner, so he lets Jean drive them back to Preston Falls while he rides shotgun and plays deejay. Hot Country really is unlistenable, so he settles on a classical station—it's that Hovhaness piece of garbage that everybody likes because they're getting old and right wing. The Magic Mountain or whatever. Willis is smashed enough to where he finds himself enjoying the heU out of it. As they pull into the dooryard, he sees stars in the black sky above his own hilltop, and that is just about fucking perfect. He gets out of the Cherokee and stands there staring in shit-faced reverence.
Champ and Tina call good night. Yeah, yeah, good night.
Jean touches his arm. She came right out of nowhere. "I'm going up to bed."
"Good," he says. "That's good." And now Rathbone is here too, tail
wagging, Rathbone! Forgot he even existed! Rathbone races off and lifts his leg against the spooky white birch tree.
"This probably isn't the best time," Jean says. "But do you think you could give me a clue as to what's going on?"
"In what sense?" he says.
She goes Oh as if somebody knocked the wind out of her.
This tells Willis he'd better try and be lucid for a second.
"Look," he says. "We've been over this. It's like I've been in the wrong life."
"Well, do you have any conception of what your life properly is? I mean, is it really up here, driving a truck?''
"That's what I hope to figure out," he says. "In my big two months." But hey, Rathbone's back! Willis gets to his knees, roughs up Rathbone's neck and teUs him That's my boy.
"Something else you might want to figure out," says Jean. "What role, if any, do your children have in this real life of yours? Not to mention your wife. Have you given thought to any of that?"
"To my shame, no," he says.
"I'm not that interested in your shame," she says. "I know you find it fascinating."
"Hey, give the little lady a brass ring," he says. "The low blow award." He strokes Rathbone's silky side and stands up again. Reelin' and a-rockin', but basically okay.
"Oh, I'm sure you took it to heart," she says. "You've fixed it so nobody's even in the same universe with you. I don't know, I just truly worry about you. As someone who knows you."
"You know me very well."
"Oh, please," she says. And goes inside.
He sits down on the stepstone; Rathbone comes over, circles, then lies at Willis's feet sniffing the night air. There's the good old Big Dipper up there, the only constellation Willis knows. Or gives a rat's ass about. Light from the upstairs window makes a night-baseball-green parallelogram on the wet grass. Lawn needs mowing. Tomorrow, without fail.
Jean gets her nightgown from the closet, shoving aside old shirts of Willis's that he's put on hangers even though they're dirty. He'll wear them when he's working, sweat them through,
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