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Madison said. “We’re studying the Russian revolution.”
    “Love
Dr. Zhivago
,” said Bernie. We watched a lot of movies, me and Bernie, although I had no recollection of this one. Truth was, I didn’t pay close attention unless my own guys were involved, even in a small way, like in
As Good as It Gets
, for example, or
Ghostbusters II.
Bernie added one more comment: “My favorite part was the tennis-court scene.”
    “Yeah,” said Madison. “That was cool.” Then she did something that took me by surprise: She came closer and gave me a pat, very soft and gentle. “I love your dog,” she said.
    They went in the house. We went home.
    It was late. Bernie found a leftover steak in the fridge. He smeared on A.1., cut it in half, and we had a little snack. Bernie cracked open a beer, sat at the table.
    “I feel guilty, not even offering to return the five C’s.”
    I chewed my steak. Loved steak, could eat it every day.
    “Except for one thing, Chet. Know what that is?”
    I looked up from my bowl, a piece of meat possibly sticking out of the side of my mouth.
    “There is no tennis-court scene in
Dr. Zhivago
.”
    Bernie opened his laptop. I turned to the water bowl.
    “Let me freshen that up.”
    Bernie refilled the water bowl at the sink, even threw in a few ice cubes. Ah. Love ice cubes. He went back to the laptop. “Yup.
Dr. Zhivago
’s playing at the North Canyon Mall, on that little screening room at the back. And Mr. Ted Rentner teaches history at Heavenly Valley High.” He sighed. Yes, the sigh, also interesting: The younger the human, in my observation, the less they do it. “Two kinds of lies, Chet. The big lie, totally out there, and the tiny one slipped into a web of truth. The girl’s damn good.” He shook the A.1. bottle, poured some more on his steak. “Did Cynthia say she was on the gifted track?”
    No idea. I crushed an ice cube. Made my teeth feel great, and then cold little chips were swirling through my mouth, cooling me down all over. Dinnertime—even a quick snacklike this—was something we always looked forward to, me and Bernie.
    He flipped his laptop shut. “On the other hand, she’s back home, safe and sound. Big picture. But you see why I don’t feel too bad about taking the money?”
    Sure. We needed money in the worst way. Our finances were a mess—alimony, child support, Hawaiian pants, and almost no revenue except for divorce work. Bernie went over and over that, almost every night. An ant, one of those juicy black ones, appeared from under the stove and tried to run right by me. What was he thinking? I hardly had to move my tongue. Bernie always stressed the importance of protein in the diet.
    Bernie’s bedroom—pretty messy, clothes, books, newspapers all over the place—was at the back of the house, looking out on the canyon. He slept in the big bed he’d shared with Leda. In those days, I’d slept in the kitchen; now I was on the floor at the foot of the bed. There was a nice soft rug somewhere under all the debris.
    “’Night, Chet.”
    I closed my eyes. The night was cooling down, and Bernie had the AC off, windows open. Lots of action in the canyon—coyote yips, rustling, a sharp cry suddenly interrupted. Bernie’s breathing grew slow and regular. He groaned once or twice in his sleep, once muttered something that sounded like “Who knows?” A car went down the street and, from the sound, seemed to slow as it approached the house. I raised my head. The car kept going, engine noise fading into silence. I got up, walked around in a little circle, and lay back down, stretching my legs straight out. One white ear, one black? So what? Very soon I was roaming the canyon, chasing coyotes, lizards, and javelinas under the moonlight—in my dreams, of course. In real life, the canyon was out of bounds, unless I was with Bernie. But he trusted me. At least I didn’t have an electric fence to deal with, like poor old Iggy.
    I woke up to the sound of Bernie