Dora, Sublett’s mother, drank Coke and Mexican vodka. Rydell had seen people drink thai before, but never at room temperature. And the Coke was flat, because she bought it and the vodka in these big plastic supermarket bottles, and they looked as though they’d already lasted her a while. Rydell decided he didn’t feel like drinking anyway. The living room of Dora’s trailer had a matching couch and reclining lounger. Dora lay back in the lounger with her feet up, for her circulation she said, Rydell and Chevette Washington sat side by side on the couch, which was more a loveseat, and Sublett sat on the floor, his knees drawn up almost under his chin. There was a lot of stuff on the walls, and on little ornamental shelves, but it was all very clean. Rydell figured that was because of Sublett’s allergies. There sure was a lot of it, though: plaques and pictures and figurines and things Rydell figured had to be those prayer hankies. There was a flat type of hologram of Rev. Fallon, looking as much like a possum as ever, but a possum that had gotten a tan and maybe had plastic surgery. There was a life-size head of J. D. Shapely that Rydell didn’t like because the eyes seemed to follow you. Most of :he good stuff was sort of grouped around the television, which was big and shiny but the old kind from before they started to get real big and flat. It was on now, showing this black and white movie, but the sound was off. ‘You’re sure you won’t have a drink, Mr. Rydell?’ ‘No ma’am, thank you,’ Rydell $aid. ‘Joel doesn’t drink. He has allergies, ~OU know.’ ‘Yes ma’am.’ Rydell hadn’t ~ver known Sublett’s first name before. 251 Sublett was wearing brand-new white denim jeans, a white t-shirt, white cotton socks, and disposable white paper hospital slippers. ‘He was always a sensitive boy, Mr. Rydell. I remember one time he sucked on the handle of this other boy’s Big Wheel. Well, his mouth like to turned inside-out.’ ‘Momma,’ Sublett said, ‘you know the doctor said you ought to get more sleep than you been getting.’ Mrs. Sublett sighed. ‘Yes, well, Joel, I know you young people want a chance to talk.’ She peered at Chevette Washington. ‘That’s a shame about your hair, honey. You’re just as pretty as can be, though, and you know it’ll just grow in so nice. I tried to light the broiler on this gas range we had, down in Galveston, that was when Joel was just a baby, he was so sensitive, and that stove about blew up. I just had had this perm, dear and, well . . .’ Chevette Washington didn’t say anything. ‘Momma,’ Sublett said, ‘now you know you’ve had your nice drink. . .’ Rydell watched Sublett lead the old woman off to bed. ‘Jesus Christ,’ Chevette Washington said, ‘what’s wrong with his eyes?’ ‘Just light-sensitive,’ Rydell said. ‘It’s spooky, is what it is.’ ‘He wouldn’t hurt a fly,’ Rydell said. Sublett came back, looked at the picture on the tv, then sighed and shut it off. ‘You know I’m not supposed to leave the trailer, Berry?’ ‘How’s that?’ ‘It’s a condition of my apostasy. They say I might corrupt the congregation by contact.’ He perched on the edge of the recliner so he wouldn’t have to actually recline in it. ‘I thought you’d blown Fallon off when you came out to LA.’ Suhlett looked embarrassed. ‘Well, she’s hecn sick, Rerry, 2.52 so when I came here I told ’em I was here to reconsider. Meditate on the box ‘n’ all.’ He wrung his long pale hands. ‘Then they caught me watching Videodrome. You ever see, uh, Deborah Harry, Rydell?’ Sublett sighed and sort of quivered. ‘How’d they catch you?’ ‘They’ve got it set up so they can monitor what you’re watching.’ ‘How come they’re out here anyway?’ Sublett ran his fingers back through his dry, straw-colored hair. ‘Hard to say, but I’d figure it’s got something to do with Reverend Fallon’s tax problems. Most of what he does, lately, it’s about that. Didn’t your job in San Francisco work out, Berry?’ ‘No,’ Rydell said, ‘it didn’t.’ ‘You want to tell me about it?’ Rydell said he did.