Nothing but Blue Skies by Thomas McGuane

retreated into his room and rang out to Eileen. “Eileen, get Joanie at Security Merchant on the line.”
    “Joanie,” he said breezily, “this is Frank Copenhaver. Uh, to refresh your memory, I cashed a check for a hundred bucks and you were kind enough to send down some little sort of cookies for my dog Scott, a tricolored border collie.”
    “Yes, I remember.”
    “Well, I wonder if you would like to uh” — blank, his mind went blank, then filled back in vaguely — “to meet Scott.”
    “If I would like to meet Scott?”
    “Yes, meet Scott.”
    “The dog?”
    “Yes.”
    “If I would like to meet your dog?”
    “Yes, that is what I am saying.”
    “I don’t know, Mr. Copenhaver, if I would or not.”
    “Think of the dog as a device. I’m saying I’d like to meet you. I’m quite safe, quite reliable, an old customer of the bank, endlesspaper trail and so on. Well, what do you say?” He was conscious of yammering.
    “Okay, where?” she said in a lusterless voice that suggested she was on to his game but would meet him partway. The absurdity of having gotten into this with dog biscuits must have struck her by now, or it would soon.
    He gave her his address and set the time at seven o’clock, a nice hour close to the crossroads between dining and tomfoolery. He hung up the phone and could have gasped with relief but for the helpless smile that spread across his face.
    Joanie was on time. By some rude standards, she was not presentable. She was a hearty, open-faced country girl, big enough to play for the Steelers. Frank told her right off that Scott was dead, but she came straight in and looked around his house as though she were the most unimpeachable ticket holder in a public place of amusement. Frank then decided he would cook for her, an impulse he had but seldom. After dinner, he promised, they would walk around the neighborhood and distribute the dog biscuits. She beamed at these suggestions, pulled things from the shelves for examination.
    Frank established Joanie on the comfortable sofa in front of the television. She made it even more comfortable by propping herself all around with pillows, removing her shoes and putting her legs up. She seemed to be in for the long haul. He gave her the channel changer and she made immediately for the baseball game. While Frank chopped and prepared, she called out key events in the game, the Indians and the Tigers, and at one point burst into such raucous laughter that Frank went in for a look: a Detroit player was shoving an umpire backward across the infield. Frank returned to his cooking, stir-frying chicken and raw peanuts, thinking about how welcome these coarse shouts from the living room were, when the doorbell rang. He took the wok off the flame and answered it. It was Lucy.
    Frank said, “Um.”
    “Is this a bad time?” she asked, peering into the hallway.
    “Not at all,” said Frank, backing inward and gesturing toward the living room with his spatula. “Please come in and introduce yourself to my guest —” Frank didn’t know Joanie’s last name. “And be so kind as to join us for dinner.”
    “Oh, I —”
    “Of course you can. I know your habits.”
    “What the heck.” Lucy came into the house in a cloud of jasmine perfume and by the time Frank heard her speaking to Joanie in the living room, he was back in the kitchen. Frank wondered what Lucy’s reflections were as to her spot on the totem pole of desire when she found this cheerful elephant on the sofa. He could hear the game and the conversation from the living room and was reminded how pleasant plain human noise could be.
    This time when the doorbell rang it was June, straight from the car lot in the sensible suit she’d worn at breakfast. “You’re just in time for dinner,” said Frank without an invitation or explanation. He shooed June into the living room and went back to the kitchen to chop every fryable thing in the refrigerator. June knew where the bar was, and