“That isn’t what I want to do.” Pearson was walking like a man in the last stages of conscious drunkenness. His head made half-rolls on his neck. His eyelids snapped up and down like spastic windowblinds. “It’s got nothin’ to do with the Major. I just want to go into the next field and lay down and close my eyes. Just lay there on my back in the wheat—” “They don’t grow wheat in Maine,” Garraty said. “It’s hay.” “—in the hay, then. And compose myself a poem. While I go to sleep.”
