“You know The Partridge Family? Or you’re too young?”

“David Cassidy.”

“I wanted Shirley Partridge to be my mother.” He moved his arms like a broken fan, spinning without effect. “I wanted that woman to come into my bedroom at night and tell me what was right in life.”

“You wanted to have suckle with her.”

“I wanted her listen to my regret. She knew what was right. She understood the secret of innocence.”“Suckle.”

“That beautiful Hammond organ, the harmonies. Do you remember? It was a real world, real, an alternate space that had real possibility, following interior childlike rhythms, saying those things out loud.” He breathed in and took Dee’s hands like they were precious things, like she had brought them from somewhere distant. “I would sit and stare at the TV after it was over, just sit there through whatever was next. I hoped it would come back. It was real to me. Can you believe that? It was as real as anything I will ever know.” He scraped his sandal back and forth. “I met the guy who wrote the music. I met him in California.”