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dough."
    "They were holding on to it, too," said Frankie, "at the last writing. You know how they are, Jimmie. You write one of 'em a letter, and he reads it dutifully, writes a note of his own, and sends the two on to another twig on the tree. The note, incidentally, begins exactly five spaces from the top right of one page, and ends five spaces from the left bottom of another. And of course it doesn't-it wouldn't-refer to Pop at all. That would be indelicate. Long before the sixteen-hundred-and-eightieth Dillon is reached, our letter is worn out and nothing but theirs remains. The result? Well-Aunt Edna's third-oldest girl, Sabetha, has her adenoids removed, and Great-Uncle Juniper gets a copy of Emerson's Essays ."
    That's about the way it would be. I've always believed that the Dillons originated the chain-letter.
    "Let's have a drink and sleep on it," I said.
    "Just a short one," said Frankie. "How do you like your job?"
    "Swell."
    "Got a good bunch to work with?"
    "Oh, swell."
    "Such enthusiasm. Let's have all the lurid details."
    "Well, there are six of us altogether, counting the foreman-or leadman, as they call him. The stockroom is divided into two departments-purchased parts, that is, parts manufactured outside the plant, and manufactured parts-but we're all inside the same enclosure. The two fellows in Purchased Parts are Busken and Vail. Busken is dapper, very nervous. Vail is the sure, enigmatic type. They're two of a kind, however."
    "O-oh," said Frankie.
    "I was on my hands and knees all day, and naturally I was sweating a lot. At some time during the day these clowns in Purchased- they've got the stenciling machine in their department-taped a neat little chromo upon my buttocks. I must have worn it for hours. It said, WET DECALS. NO STEP."
    Frankie laughed until the seams of her dress threatened to split.
    "Why Jimmie! That's clever!"
    "Isn't it? Then, there's Moon, our leadman. He came around tonight at quitting time and gave me a few words of comfort. He said not to worry if I didn't seem to be doing anything; the company expected to lose money on a man for the first month."
    Frankie slapped her knees. "And you getting fifty cents an hour!"
    "Oh, it's funny," I said. "Now for a really brainy fellow we have Gross, the bookkeeper. He's a graduate of the University of Louisiana and a former All-American. I asked him if he knew Lyle Saxon."
    "Well?"
    "He asked me what year Lyle was on the team."
    "So that fixes him in your book." Frankie didn't laugh this time.
    "The remaining member of our sextette," I said, "is named Murphy. He was laying off today so I didn't meet him."
    Frankie picked up her shoes and got up. "You'll never make it down there, Jimmie. Not the way you feel. Don't you really think you can write any more?"
    "No."
    "What are you going to do, then?"
    "Get drunk."
    "Good-night."
    "Good-night…"
    I thought about Pop: Now what the hell will we do, I thought. I thought about Roberta, about Mom. About the kids growing up around me. Growing up amidst this turmoil, these hatreds, this-well, why quibble-insanity. I thought and my stomach tightened into a little ball; my guts crawled up around my lung and my vision went black.
    I took a drink and chased it with wine.
    I thought about the time I'd sold a thousand dollars' worth of stories in a month. I thought about the day I became a director for the Writers' Project. I thought about the fellowship I'd gotten from the foundation- one of the two fellowships available for the whole country. I thought about the letters I'd got from a dozen different publishers-"The finest thing we have ever read." "Swell stuff, Dillon; keep it coming." "We are paying you our top rate…"
    I said to myself, So what? Were you ever happy? Did you ever have any peace? And I had to answer, Why no, for Christ's sake; you've always been in hell. You've just slipped deeper. And you're going to keep on because you're your father. Your father without his endurance. They'll have you in