The same air over Texas. Texas and home. He must reach Texas somehow, seek it out and find it. Isn't it the biggest state? Its cattle the beefiest? Its liars the lyingest?
Texas—Texas is west. West is across Broadway, down that street, across that one, hurrying, racing, across another, the Drive, Riverside a blurred green in the dawn light.
Over yonder in the west lies Texas. He hasn't got a dime. Not a dime. Well, then, he'll walk it. He'll walk west on the pier, to Texas. He'll tread Texas soil again before he dies—Selma, fragrant with magnolia in the spring.
To tread Texas soil, he must first cross the river.
Well, didn't Jesus tread the waters? And why? Didn't Mr. Barton say, one Sunday morning, "to prove this is the best of all possible worlds."
What Mr. Barton meant was that Texas is the best of all possible worlds.
Not Hollywood or Mexico or New York.
Home. Home to Texas.
He was in a great hurry and he stepped right off the pier and into space.
His body obeyed the natural law. It fell into the water.
The water was cold. It sobered him up.
He went down. Water fresh in his face.
He came up. Water gulped into his throat.
As he came up, the eastern sun rose in gilded dawn over the city of New York.
Ken's hand stretched out, as if to grasp the city that had killed him.
