seventeenIt was a warm Sunday morning that promised to grow hot—unusual in this seaboard city—but Sheila McCarthy had talked Mac into it. He hated the complexity of heat and crowds and buildings. The cool, dark emptiness of Time & Space suited him better, but sometimes he worried over that, just as he worried over babies and razors and shaving.
“Its not really a parade,” Sheila argued. “It’s more like a moving party. You like parties, don’t you?”
“They’re okay,” Mac said.
He’d asked Robin if she wanted to go, but she said she had other plans. She’d found a half busted chaise lounge at Goodwill, and she wanted to get some sun on the roof, encumbered only by a greenish plastic bottle of Sea & Ski, a book by Edgar Cayce, and a twenty-four ounce can of Colt 45.
“You guys go,” Robin said. “
