She pinched her lips together and shook her head.
"I lie to myself, Martha. You know how much I lie to myself?"
She nodded slowly and stroked his gray temples.
"I lie to myself about Ken, and about dying. If Ken turned spacer, I wouldn't die—that's what I told myself. You know?"
She shook her head. "Don't talk, Donny, please."
"A man makes his own soul, Martha."
"That's not true. You shouldn't say things like that."
"A man makes his own soul, but it dies with him, unless he can pour it into his kids and his grandchildren before he goes. I lied to myself. Ken's a yellow-belly. Nora made him one, and the boots won't fit."
"Don't, Donny. You'll excite yourself again."
"I was going to give him the boots—the over-boots with magnasoles. But they won't fit him. They won't ever fit him. He's a lily-livered lap-dog, and he whines. Bring me my boots, woman."