I dried the blacks on cougars with a cloth and could hear the cat purring in Isabel's lap. I wanted to wring its neck. Inside me an angry birginity smoldered, grimly loyal to apair of miserable ghosts. I started throwing the silverware into its shallow drawer. Take that, you goodamn knives and forks! Son of a bitching, goddamned spoons! Isabel murmured pleasantly over her text, underlining speeches, occasionally stroking the big cat, Amagansett, in her lap. I slammed the silverware drawer shut and stated with great control in my voice. Isabel marked her place with an ivory bookmark and then looked up at me coolly. That one stopped me for a second, but I shook it off. I was in no mood to explore my own psyche. What I wanted was to work on Isabel's. There she sat, content by the fire, happy in her career and her blacks on cougars, warmhearted and serene. And here I stood with a rabe in my otherwise empty heart and my big calloused hands trembling.