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'Oh-oh, watch what you call my car,' Arnie said. 'She's very sensitive.'

'Is she?' I asked.

'She is,' Arnie said, smiling.

I turned my head and called, 'Sorry, Christine.'

'That's better.'

For a moment all three of us stood there, my father and I at the bottom of the kitchen steps. Arnie in the doorway above us, none of us apparently knowing what to say next. I felt a kind of panic - someone had to say something, or else the whole, ridiculous fiction that nothing had changed would collapse of its own weight.

'Well, okay,' my dad said at last. 'You two kids stay sober. If you have more than a couple of beers, Arnie, call me.'

'Don't worry, Mr Guilder.'

'We'll be all right,' I said, grinning a grin that felt plastic and false. 'You go on home and get your beauty sleep, Dad. You need it.'

'Oh-ho,' my father said. 'Watch what you call my face. It's very sensitive.'

He went back to the car. I stood and watched him, my crutches propped into my armpits. I watched him while he crossed behind Christine. And when he backed out of the driveway and turned toward home, I felt a little bit better.

I banged the snow off the tip of each crutch carefully while standing in the doorway. The Cunninghams' kitchen was tile-floored. A couple of near accidents had taught me that on smooth surfaces a pair of crutches with wet snow on them can turn into ice-skates.

'You really operate on those babies,' Arnie said, watching me cross the floor. He took a pack of Tiparillos from the pocket of his flannel shirt, shook one out, bit down on the white plastic mouthpiece, and lit it with his head cocked to one side. The match flame played momentarily across his cheeks like yellow streaks of paint.

'It's a skill I'll be glad to lose,' I said. 'When did you start with the cigars?'

'Darnell's,' he said. 'I don't smoke em in front of my mother. The smell drives her bugshit.'

He didn't smoke like a kid who just learning the habit - he smoked like a man who has been doing it for twenty years.

'I thought I'd make popcorn,' he said. 'You up for that?'

'Sure. You got any beer?'

'That's affirmative. There's a six-pack in the fridge and two more downstairs.'

'Great.' I sat down carefully at the kitchen table, stretching out my left leg. 'Where're your folks?'

'Went to a New Year's Eve party at the Fassenbachs'. When's that cast come off?'

'Maybe at the end of January, if I'm lucky.' I waved my crutches in the air and cried dramatically, 'Tiny Tim walks again! God bless us, every one!'

Arnie, on his way to the stove with a deep pan, a bag of popcorn, and a bottle of Wesson Oil, laughed and shook his head. 'Same old Dennis. They didn't knock much of the stuffing out of you, you shitter.'

'You didn't exactly overwhelm me with visits in the hospital, Arnie.'

'I brought you Thanksgiving supper - what the hell do you want, blood?'

I shrugged.

Arnie sighed. 'Sometimes I think you were my good-luck charm, Dennis.'

'Off my case, hose-head.'

'No, seriously. I've been in hot water ever since you broke your wishbones, and I'm still in hot water. It's a wonder I don't look like a lobster.' He laughed heartily. It was not the sound you'd expect of a kid in trouble; it was the laugh of a man - yes, a man - who was enjoying himself tremendously, He put the pan on the stove and poured Wesson Oil over the bottom of it. His hair, shorter than it used to be and combed back in a style that was new to me, fell over his forehead. He flipped it back with a quick jerk of his head and added popcorn to the oil. He slammed a lid over the pan. Went to the fridge. Got a six-pack. Slammed it down in front of me, pulled off two cans, and opened them. Gave me one. Held up his. I held up mine.

'A toast,' Arnie said. 'Death to all the shitters of the world in 1979.'

I lowered my can slowly. 'I can't drink to that, man.'

I saw a spark of anger in those grey eyes. It seemed to twinkle there, like spurious good humour, and then go out. 'Well, what can you drink to - man?'

'How about