Was

'She was from a farming community called Zeandale, near a place called Manhattan, Kansas. Its other claim to fame is that Damon Runyon was born there.'

'What was she like?'

'Well,' said Bill, looking into his wineglass. 'It was as if she lived in Oz all the time. She lived in a world of her own. Maybe that was what Baum saw in her, maybe not. I wrote to the Baum Estate to find out more about it. All they could tell me was that Baum had been a substitute teacher there for a short while. They thought it more likely that the character in the book was named after Baum's niece.'

He told Jonathan the story, as much as he knew. He told him how Dorothy had died. The room seemed to fill with the low smoky light that comes on winter afternoons, sun through silver mist.

'One day,' said Bill, 'I might just go to Manhattan and see what else I can find out about her. Speaking of which, how are you and Oz getting on?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Oz. Remember our contract?'

Jonathan had forgotten.

Ira finally arrived in his own car. He was gray with fatigue, and he stared coldly at Jonathan.

'I rang and rang. Where were you?' he asked, as he sat down.

Jonathan's eyes were round, unblinking, feverish. He didn't answer.

Ira turned to Bill. 'I'm really sorry, Bill. I wanted to call and say I was going to be late, but I didn't have your home number.'

Bill explained. 'That's okay. Jonathan told me he was locked out of your house. He couldn't answer the phone.'

'I've lost my house keys, Ira,' said Jonathan. The room glimmered, as sunlight sprinkles snow with stars. Someone was trying to walk toward Jonathan through the mist. All Jonathan could see was a dark shape, lumpy, in dark clothes. Light came in rays from all around it, cutting through the mist, casting shadows.

'I'll need sunglasses,' said Jonathan and grinned and grinned.

Muffy came in, carrying the dessert. To Jonathan, the dessert looked like a chocolate pudding.

'I made this specially for you,' Muffy said to Jonathan.

Jonathan imagined how smooth the chocolate pudding would be. He picked up the serving spoon and plunged it into the dish, and then, confused, pushed it into his own mouth.

'Jonathan!' exclaimed Ira and thumped both hands on the table. The pudding seemed to turn into dust in Jonathan's mouth. It was chestnut pudding, bland and with a kind of powdery texture underneath.

'It's okay,' said Muffy. 'I'll get another serving spoon.'

As she left for the kitchen, Jonathan thought: She made it for me, and I don't like it and that will hurt her feelings. I know. I'll eat without chewing it, so I won't have to taste it. There was silence at the table as he gulped it. He took another serving spoonful and swallowed again. He made a noise like a frog.

Muffy came back out. One more mouthful for her. He stuck the spoon in and swallowed it whole, raw.

'Very. Good,' he said.

Then he stood up and shambled into the kitchen and threw it up, into the sink, over the draining board.

'Oh God! Jonathan!' shouted Ira.

There was a kitchen chair. Jonathan slumped helpless onto it, otherwise he might have fallen.

Ira was in the kitchen first. He picked up a towel. It was a good dishtowel, too good to use.

'Oh Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,' he said and flung the towel against the wall in rage. Muffy came in.

'I'm so sorry,' said Ira to her.

'That's okay. I can clean it up,' said Muffy. She did not sound cheerful, but managed to be reasonably businesslike.

'No. You will not. That is one thing you mustn't do,' said Ira. There were wispy trails of blood in the pudding.

Jonathan had begun to realize exactly what he had done. He wished he was dead. Then he remembered that he would be soon enough. 'I'm sorry,' he said, in a voice perhaps too low for the others to hear. Jonathan tried to get up and found that he couldn't. 'I'll clean it up,' he said. Again, no one seemed to hear.

Muffy flashed rubber gloves. Ira took them from her. 'Really,' he said. 'I'd rather you let me do it.'

'Okay,' said Muffy. 'Jonathan, would you like to go outside for a walk?'

What?

Then it was a minute or two later and Muffy wasn't there. Ira was scrubbing, his back to Jonathan, pouring bleach on the draining board.

'Ira? We were talking about Wichita,' said Jonathan. 'And Wyatt Earp. He wore a policeman's uniform. Mostly he just took in stray dogs. His sisters were registered prostitutes.'

Ira did not answer.

'I'm sorry, Ira.'

Ira still did not answer. When he was done, he seemed to sag in place. He pulled off the gloves and let them