Pierce opened the door an inch.
The house was silent. Mousie might have gone back to bed, or gone out, or into the bathroom with Baby Henry. Pierce pulled Bobby unwilling out the door and around to the stairs upward. Once in the house, though, Bobby wanted to linger and see things, and Pierce had to whisper urgently to her; even more than in the bungalow, Bobby seemed uncontrollable, a source of catastrophe here, in Sam's house. Sam, though, was gone.
Gone.
He pushed her up the stairs, his ears huge to hear Mousie with Henry. Nothing. He urged Bobby over against the hallway wall, showing her where to step along the outermost floorboards that didn't creak.
"Go on. Go on."
At length she pushed back, having had enough, and turned to look at him in defiant contempt, arms akimbo. Pierce made urgent hand signals: that door, that one. Bobby walked to it with deliberate steps, on her own, a guest here.
Sam's bedroom was more silent than the silent house. Pierce's heart beat hard, conscious of the outrage he was committing. “Stay here,” he said to Bobby, who was looking around the room from the threshold, her eyes alone moving, almost unwilling to step up on the carpet. “Just stay here." He pointed to the little clock on the bedside table, next to the phone that now and then woke Sam in the middle of the night. “When it says twelve , I'll come back. Twelve ."
* * * *
For a long time after he closed the door on her (she watched the knob turned carefully so as to make no noise) she only stood hugging herself; but she grew braver. She took wadded bread from her pocket and ate it as she looked over Sam's furnishings. There were two beds, or really one bed split into two, joined behind by shelves of gray grained wood, she ran her hand over its glassy unwoodlike surface. She looked into the broad mirror over a dresser made of the same wood, burned by a cigarette here, a little wound that would never heal: she put her finger into it.
When she had lost her fear of the room she dared open the door and peek out. She heard voices, Mousie's and a male voice she didn't know (it was Joe Boyd), and closed the door again. She tried a chair—it had a wooden coat hanger affixed to the top of it, with a coat draped over it, and big shoes on a rack below: a chair wearing clothes. She went to the bed and lay down on one side of it, listening to the hum of the clock (which she couldn't read) and smelling the familiar male smell of the pillow, like her grandpap's. When she got up, she noted that an impression of herself remained on the bed and the pillow.
She opened Sam's drawers, and marveled at the black eggs of his rolled socks; she looked at huge glossy issues of Esquire magazine that Sam prudishly stashed there, at pictures of cars and bottles of amber whiskey and elongated women the color of biscuits. She found the furry humpbacked box that held Opal's wedding rings: she opened it, and watched the tiny stone color the light that entered it, her thighs tight together and her hand pressed between her legs.
She had seen the commode in the little house where the children lived and thought there might be another one in here too, but where. She bent to look under the bed for the pot, one side, the other side, wetting her pants. No pot. At length she lifted a ginger jar off the headboard of the bed, and used that as well as she could, watering the flocked rug too. She rolled up her damp pants and tossed them deep under the bed where no one could ever find them; she capped the jar and put it back. Later she could ask where to empty it.
She forgot it, though, when she saw the knob of the door turn, and Pierce's anxious white face looked in: and though Winnie eventually found the pants, still for a long time Sam would smell in his room the tang of stale urine, and not know why.
"Come on,” Pierce whispered.
"There's a diamond ring there,” she said.
"Come on.” He had sat all day in Sister Mary Philomel's classroom burdened with his
The house was silent. Mousie might have gone back to bed, or gone out, or into the bathroom with Baby Henry. Pierce pulled Bobby unwilling out the door and around to the stairs upward. Once in the house, though, Bobby wanted to linger and see things, and Pierce had to whisper urgently to her; even more than in the bungalow, Bobby seemed uncontrollable, a source of catastrophe here, in Sam's house. Sam, though, was gone.
Gone.
He pushed her up the stairs, his ears huge to hear Mousie with Henry. Nothing. He urged Bobby over against the hallway wall, showing her where to step along the outermost floorboards that didn't creak.
"Go on. Go on."
At length she pushed back, having had enough, and turned to look at him in defiant contempt, arms akimbo. Pierce made urgent hand signals: that door, that one. Bobby walked to it with deliberate steps, on her own, a guest here.
Sam's bedroom was more silent than the silent house. Pierce's heart beat hard, conscious of the outrage he was committing. “Stay here,” he said to Bobby, who was looking around the room from the threshold, her eyes alone moving, almost unwilling to step up on the carpet. “Just stay here." He pointed to the little clock on the bedside table, next to the phone that now and then woke Sam in the middle of the night. “When it says twelve , I'll come back. Twelve ."
* * * *
For a long time after he closed the door on her (she watched the knob turned carefully so as to make no noise) she only stood hugging herself; but she grew braver. She took wadded bread from her pocket and ate it as she looked over Sam's furnishings. There were two beds, or really one bed split into two, joined behind by shelves of gray grained wood, she ran her hand over its glassy unwoodlike surface. She looked into the broad mirror over a dresser made of the same wood, burned by a cigarette here, a little wound that would never heal: she put her finger into it.
When she had lost her fear of the room she dared open the door and peek out. She heard voices, Mousie's and a male voice she didn't know (it was Joe Boyd), and closed the door again. She tried a chair—it had a wooden coat hanger affixed to the top of it, with a coat draped over it, and big shoes on a rack below: a chair wearing clothes. She went to the bed and lay down on one side of it, listening to the hum of the clock (which she couldn't read) and smelling the familiar male smell of the pillow, like her grandpap's. When she got up, she noted that an impression of herself remained on the bed and the pillow.
She opened Sam's drawers, and marveled at the black eggs of his rolled socks; she looked at huge glossy issues of Esquire magazine that Sam prudishly stashed there, at pictures of cars and bottles of amber whiskey and elongated women the color of biscuits. She found the furry humpbacked box that held Opal's wedding rings: she opened it, and watched the tiny stone color the light that entered it, her thighs tight together and her hand pressed between her legs.
She had seen the commode in the little house where the children lived and thought there might be another one in here too, but where. She bent to look under the bed for the pot, one side, the other side, wetting her pants. No pot. At length she lifted a ginger jar off the headboard of the bed, and used that as well as she could, watering the flocked rug too. She rolled up her damp pants and tossed them deep under the bed where no one could ever find them; she capped the jar and put it back. Later she could ask where to empty it.
She forgot it, though, when she saw the knob of the door turn, and Pierce's anxious white face looked in: and though Winnie eventually found the pants, still for a long time Sam would smell in his room the tang of stale urine, and not know why.
"Come on,” Pierce whispered.
"There's a diamond ring there,” she said.
"Come on.” He had sat all day in Sister Mary Philomel's classroom burdened with his
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