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poop.' Even the, usual scattered trash and circling pigeons
seemed somehow irksome. "My gteat grandfather's Irish," he

said, de aperat e to connect to the painting.
','It'sa,n amazing culture. It br.ings out my 'creative

genius'",~s .m.y- father terms it. It's just these art shows
I hate ~'aII the commercialism and noise and incessant
'movem~nt·. I'll be glad to get home; I miss everyone when I'm

gone."

"Eyeryone?"
"You know, the parents, the friends - all my people."

"Right." A gust of wind rattled t hrouqn him', and he
wrapped his arms around his chest to keep his body from
. shak.i nq . He thought of h.i.s- .dead par errts , his ex-wi fe, the
young people who never seemed to remember his name, old Mrs.
Randolph, 'who always waved but never spoke.

"You should go t.here sometime." Her voice, rubbed' against

the raw flesh of his thoughts.
'''What?,''
"You shou ld go to Ireland. You seem to love the painting.

Lots of p~opje go there to discover their heritage or some

such thing." As she spoke, she gathered the last of her
paintings and stacked them into a dented turquoise box,

leaving only the sheep behind.
"Do you want ··tobuy it?" She strode across' the tent and

threw the box into the trunk of her jeep. She paused, waiting
for his answer, framed against the moldy side of an old brick

buiiding.
Bernie stood up in the stroller and barked directly at

the sheep. Walter placed a hand· on the beagle's, head. He
,thought 'about the woman's question, watched his veins .a.nd

wrlnkle~ ciaw away at the crust of his hand.
"Will you be here tomorrow?" he asked
"No, we're only passing through for a day."
,'Hegrabbed a deep breath between his teeth. His gaze

shifted to t~e two empty water _PottIes stacked on the folding

'table. "I can recycle those bottles for you."
. "Sure.~' In one fluid movement, she tossed him, the ',I;)ottles,

coll.apsed the table, and rammed it Lnto her jeep. 'She'reached
one "paLe hand' for the Irish meadow. "Do you want' it or not?"
'Walter was trapped, ;unable ):0 answer. Yes and no Doth seemed
wrong. He reached 'for Bernie and cradled him against his '
,chest. His free arm clutched the stroller. "Have a ,nice
. 'evening," he said and he turned to continue his walk. The
bottl,~s rat t Ledr. the stroller wheels clanged against the bumpy

pavement. ,'

Later that night, as he watched the moon rock in the sky,

he 'imagined he was perched on the remnants of a castle wall,

laughing as Bernie' bounded around the meadow, corralling the

sheep.