David Rabe Reads John Updike
The New Yorker: Fiction
The House of Faucet
Faucet saw Georgie Mueller's living room as wide as her house, minus the width of a set of unused stairs. He supposed that if his childhood had left a ghost, its haunt would be here. Here and in Wilma Anna's two-seat white wooden swing dappled by sun coming through morning glories. The candy was not hard in twists of cellophane, but left over Halloween candy. For $29 he figured he could sneak a handful while his hostess moved into the next room.
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