hat was the curse of being a dummy. You were always being surprised by grief, because you could never remember the important things. The only stuff that stuck was dumb stuff. Like that poem Mrs. Selig made them learn way back in the fifth grade: Under the spreading chestnut tree, the village smithy stands. What good was that? What good when you caught yourself peeling potatoes for two and got smacked all over again with knowing you didn't need to peel no two potatoes, because the other guy was never going to eat another spud?

Well, maybe it wasn't grief. Maybe that word wasn't the right word.

Not if that meant crying and knocking your head against the wall. You didn't do that for the likes of George. But there was loneliness. There was hurt. And there was fear.

George would say: "Jesus, would you change your fuckin skivvies?

Those things are ready to stand up on their own. They're disgusting."

George would say: "You only tied one, dimbulb."

George would say: "Aw, fuck, turn around and I'll tuck it in. Like havin a kid."

When he got up the morning after he stole the Ford, George was sitting in the other room. Blaze couldn't see him but knew he was sitting in the broken-down easy-chair like always, with his head down so his chin was almost on his chest. The first thing he said was, "You screwed up again, Kong. Congratcha-fuckin-lations."

Blaze hissed when his feet hit the cold floor. Then he fumbled his shoes on. Naked except for them, he ran and looked out the window. No car. He sighed with relief. It came out in a little puff he could see.

"No, I didn't. I put it in the shed, just like you told me."

"You didn't wipe the goddam tracks, though, did you? Why don't you put out a sign, Blaze? THIS WAY TO THE HOT CAR. You could charge admission. Why don't you just do that?"

"Aw, George-"

" Aw, George, aw, George.' Go out and sweep em up."

"Okay." He started for the door.

"Blaze?"

"What?"

"Put on your fucking pants first, why don't you?"

Blaze felt his face burn.

"Like a kid," George said, sounding resigned. "One who can shave."

George knew how to stick it in, all right. Only finally he'd gone and stuck it in the wrong guy, too often and too far. That was how you ended up dead, with nothing smart to say. Now George was just dead, and Blaze was making his voice up in his mind, giving him the good lines. George had been dead since that crap game in the warehouse.

I'm crazy for even trying to go through with this, Blaze thought. A dum-dum like me.

But he pulled on his underwear shorts (checking them carefully for stains first), then a thermal undershirt, then a flannel top shirt and a pair of heavy corduroy pants. His Sears workboots were under the bed. His Army surplus parka was hanging on the doorknob. He hunted for his mittens and finally found them on the shelf over the dilapidated woodstove in the combination kitchen-living room. He got his checkered cap with the earflaps and put it on, careful to give the visor a little good-luck twist to the left. Then he went out and got the broom leaning against the door.

The morning was bright and bitter. The moisture in his nose crackled immediately. A gust of wind drove snow as fine as powdered sugar into his face, making him wince. It was all right for George to give orders. George was inside drinking coffee by the stove. Like last night, taking off for a beer, leaving Blaze to figure out the car. And there he would still be if he hadn't had the dumb luck to find the keys somewhere, either under the floormat or in the glove compartment, he forgot which. Sometimes he didn't think George was a very good friend.

He swept the tracks away with the broom, pausing several minutes to admire them before he started. How the treads stood up and cast shadows, mostly, little perfect things. It was funny how little things could be so perfect and no one ever saw them. He looked at this until he was tired of looking (no George to tell him to hurry up) and then worked his way down the short driveway to the road, brushing the tracks away. The plow had gone by in the night, pushing back the snow-dunes the wind made across these country roads where there were open fields to one side and t'other, and any other tracks were gone.

Blaze tromped back to the shack. He went inside. Now it felt warm inside. Getting out of bed it had felt cold, but now it felt warm. That was funny, too-how your sense of things could change. He took off his coat and boots and flannel shirt and sat down to the table in his undershirt and cords. He turned on the radio and was surprised when it didn't play the rock George listened to but warmed up right to country. Loretta Lynn was singing that your good girl is gonna go bad. George would laugh and say something like, "That's right, honey-you can go bad all over my face." And Blaze would laugh too, but down deep that song always made him sad. Lots of country songs did.

When the coffee was hot he jumped up and poured two cups. He loaded one with cream and hollered, "George? Here's your coffee, hoss! Don't let it go cold!"

No answer.

He looked down at the white coffee. He didn't drink coffee-with, so what about it? Just what about it? Something come up in his throat then and he almost hucked George's goddam white coffee across the room, but then he didn't. He took it oversink and poured it down instead. That was controlling your temper. When you were a big guy, you had to do that or get in trouble.

*

Blaze hung around the shack until after lunch. Then he drove the stolen car out of the shed, stopping by the kitchen steps long enough to get out and throw snowballs at the license plates. That was pretty smart. It would make them hard to read.