"It's awful late to be going to Peter's, isn't it?"

I looked at my watch. "It's only ten."

"You've been spending a lot of time over there," she said. "Is there anything I need to know about?"

I squeezed the car keys in my hand. I could feel the ridges jam into my palm.

"I'm going to ignore what you're implying, Barbra."

"What might that be? Why don't you just fill me in on it, Steve?"

I wondered, for a second, what it would feel like to choke the breath out of her. Would it take longer than a couple of minutes if I just smashed her larynx in with my fist?

Instead, I said, "I'm not going to dignify your paranoia with a response," and left.

*****

When I let myself into Peter's house, he was on the phone.

With Barbra.

"I'm just going through some tough times, sis. Steve's been a big help."

*****



"On to us about what?" he asked, kissing me hard.

*****

When I got home, tired and satisfied, Barbra was asleep in the bedroom.

On the dining room table lay a rose, with a small note of apology.

*****

The next day, as Peter and I answered questions for the workmen finishing the Mocha Daze re-model, she walked in.

Her red hair in pigtails framing a scarlet, sunburnt nose and freckled cheeks, she wore a pair of overalls over a Sandman t-shirt, a pack of cigarettes rolled up in the sleeve. A toolbelt drooped around her waist, a hammer dangling from one of the loops.

At six feet tall, she looked like a giant, butch Pippi Longstocking.

"Hi, Stevie," she said.

"Anne! What are you doing here?" said Peter, taking the words out of my mouth.

"Barbra called me this morning and said you needed a foreman for this job. Where do I begin?"

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