Michael Malone - Weebly

e his words, not his emotions. He seemed to be
turning into A.A. Hayes, paranoid and intoxicated.
Winslow realized that the drink in his hand was his fifth;
he remembered that he had failed to eat dinner, or
lunch, nor had he slept well in Boston the night before.
Obviously he was drunk and debilitated, and so not
himself, for he didn't drink. Nor did he stay up until 2:00
A.M. It was after two by the rosewood desk clock,
Beanie's gift. "You won't remember to wear your watch
but you always want to know what time it is, so I'm
putting a clock here and one on the office desk."
Abernathy looked around his study. Beanie had
decorated it; she had the gift of fabrics and forms, of
woods and colors. He loved the room, its three
windows opening onto seven pine trees and then the
meadow of green yard beyond them. He loved the
mosaic of his books, the fine faded pattern of the
Oriental rug, the Daumier and Hogarth engravings that
mocked his profession, so that as he searched for
precedents, sardonic attorneys winked down at him and
porcine judges snored. He loved most of all the
alabaster head, yellow with age, that sat by the window.