were puffy and loose; his mouth quivered with grief. But he was crying soundlessly, neither sobbing nor whimpering, his voice stuck far back in his throat.
'It's okay,' Tony said. 'Everything will be all right. You don't need Wilma. You're better off without her. You've got friends. We'll help you get over this, Frank, if you'll just let us. I'll help. I care. I really do care, Frank.'
Frank closed his eyes. His mouth sagged down, and he sobbed, but still in eerie silence, making noise only when he sucked in a wheezy breath. He reached out, seeking support, and Tony put an arm around him.
'Wanna go home,' Frank said mushily. 'I juss wanna go home.'
'All right. I'll take you home. Just hold on.'
With arms around each other, like old buddies from the war, they left The Bolt Hole. They walked two and a half blocks to the apartment complex where Tony lived and climbed into Tony's Jeep station wagon.
They were halfway to Frank's apartment when Frank took a deep breath and said, 'Tony ... I'm afraid.'
Tony glanced at him.
Frank was hunched down in his seat. He seemed small and weak; his clothes looked too big for him. Tears shone on his face.
'What are you afraid of?' Tony asked.
'I don't wanna be alone,' Frank said, weeping thinly, shaking from the effects of too much liquor, but shaking from something else as well, some dark fear.
'You aren't alone,' Tony said.
'I'm afraid of... dyin' alone.'
'You aren't alone, and you aren't dying, Frank.'
'We all get old ... so fast. And then.... I want someone to be there.'
'You'll find someone.'
'I want someone to remember and care.'
'Don't worry,' Tony said lamely.
'It scares me.'
'You'll find someone.'
'Never.'
'Yes. You will.'
'Never. Never,' Frank said, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the side window.
By the time they got to Frank's apartment house, he was sleeping like a child. Tony tried to wake him. But Frank would not come fully to his senses. Stumbling, mumbling, sighing heavily, he allowed himself to be half- walked, half-carried to the door of the apartment. Tony propped him against the wall beside the front door, held him up with one hand, felt through his pockets, found the key. When they finally reached the bedroom, Frank collapsed on the mattress in a loose-limbed heap and began to snore.
Tony undressed him down to his shorts. He pulled back the covers, rolled Frank onto the bottom sheet, pulled the top sheet and the blanket over him. Frank just snuffled and snored.
In the kitchen, in a junk drawer beside the sink, Tony found a pencil, a pad of writing paper, and a roll of Scotch tape. He wrote a note to Frank and taped it to the refrigerator door.
Dear Frank,
When you wake up in the morning, you're going to remember everything you told me, and you're probably going to be a little embarrassed. Don't worry. What you told me will stay strictly between us. And tomorrow I'll tell you some outrageously embarrassing secrets of my own, so then we'll be even. After all, cleaning the soul is one thing friends are for.
Tony.
He locked the door on his way out.
Driving home, he thought about poor Frank being all alone, and then he realized that his own situation was not markedly better. His father was still alive, but Carlo was sick a lot these days and probably would not live more than five years, ten at the most. Tony's brothers and sisters were spread all over the country, and none of them was really close in spirit either. He had a great many friends, but it was not just friends that you wanted by you when you were old and dying. He knew what Frank had meant. When you were on your deathbed, there were only certain hands that you could hold and from which you could draw courage: the hands of your spouse, your children, or your parents. He realized that he was building the kind of life that, when complete, might well be a hollow temple of loneliness. He was thirty-five, still young, but he had never truly given much serious thought to marriage. Suddenly, he had the feeling that time was slipping through his fingers. The years went by so very fast. It seemed only last year that he had been twenty-five, but a decade was gone.
Maybe Hilary Thomas is the one, he thought as he pulled into the parking slot in front of his apartment. She's special. I can see that. Very special. Maybe she'll think I'm someone special, too. It could work out for us. Couldn't it?
For a while he sat in the Jeep, staring at the night sky, thinking about Hilary Thomas and about getting old and dying alone.
***
At 10:30, when Hilary was deeply involved in the James Clavell novel, just as she was finishing a snack of apples and cheese, the telephone rang.
'Hello?'
There was only silence on the other end of the line.
'Who's there?'
Nothing.
