Michael Malone - Weebly

patience with them.
She had apparently now lost patience with him, for
she had gone. Gone beyond the compass of his call,
should he call. Winslow poured himself another Scotch
and gazed with mild dismay at the white water circle he
had allowed to stain his desktop. Well, he thought, why
not get angry about it all? People were always telling
him to get angry: "Say how you feel, Winslow," Beanie
had desired.
Why not then chase after her with a siren atop his
car, force her by law, by physical bullying, to return?
Why not pitch Lance out into an employment line?
Accuse Arthur of moral and intellectual muteness? Yes,
the snot-nosed pricks, Beanie had always loved them
best. And they, hadn't they turned on him, hadn't they
(in their heart of hearts) been trying to murder him from
the moment they were ambulatory? Murder him in cold
blood and pass their patricide off as a childish accident?
Had not ambush stalked him, turned his home into a
Theban road of subterranean explosives—an innocuous
tricycle suddenly angled at the top of the basement
steps, an escaped pet tarantula walking the tightrope of