stairs. She shakes her head, a little curl falling out of the stiffness of her beehive onto her forehead. He reaches for her, grasps her by the wrist, and pulls her into the bathroom with him. Locks the door.
He has at least a couple of minutes; no one else is on the stairs. The voice of Dabney Hill booms through the house.
"I guess the only time I've been more surprised is when I woke up the morning after my wedding night, and Ernestine says to me—
But he is interrupted by Ernestine's sink-unclogging laugh, followed by her admonition: "If you tell that one, Dab, the next time we all get together will be at your surprise funeral!"
Passing by the closed bathroom door, mindful of some give and squeak in the floorboards there, he hears the boy groaning inside, and the girl says breathlessly, "Let me lick it, Clifton, that'll for sure make it go in easier." Down the hall to the front of the house again. There is a parched rubber plant on a brass stand beneath the window. Next to the master bedroom is the door to the attic. He opens it. Dabney Hill is saying, "—but to be serious for just a minute, if I may, I feel truly blessed to have so many good friends, who have taken the trouble to come by tonight and help old Poop-Deck Pappy celebrate his fiftieth birthday, and I'm looking forward to seeing each and every one of you back here again when the one with the two big zeros rolls around." Applause. He pauses on the stairs; the attic is dark and warm and reeks of stale, settled-in cigar smoke. He takes out his pocket flashlight and searches the risers, looking for obstacles in his way. Then he climbs the stairs to the attic floor, checking the beams for headroom, which is adequate when he removes his rancher's straw.
No windows overlook the backyard, although the wall has been cut to allow for a half-ton air-conditioning unit Enough light penetrates the grime on the panes of the two small dormer windows on the front of the house so that after a couple of minutes he no longer needs the thin beam of the flashlight to get around without bumping into things: a child's rocking horse and playpen, a mounted deerhead ravaged by moths, a wardrobe filled with out-of-style clothing, twenty boxes of old books, papers, keepsakes, letters, Christmas ribbon and wrapping and ornaments. A gnomelike Santa Claus with a cottony beard and a red-lipped grin. A couple of dolls and doll furniture, a stack of children's board games. An old navy footlocker and seaman's bag, some trunks and other items of luggage.
Dab is saying, "Now I think my daughter has a few words before we get on with the cake-cutting, so all you kids with sweet tooth’s just settle down, and that goes for you too, Pearl Blaney —-"
The attic is unpartitioned . There is the housing of a ceiling fan positioned above the second-floor hallway, a toilet and a sink in the open where Dab has put down some carpeting and made a space for himself, a clubroom of sorts: the centerpiece is an octagonal poker table with the green baize in pretty good shape, a little gray in spots from rubbed- in cigar and cigarette ash. Stacks of chips and decks of cards in the center, glass ashtrays of various shapes and colors all around. Dab has hung a fluorescent fixture low over the table. There is a standing lamp behind an armchair with the fabric worn down to the stuffing in places, a footstool, a little table which holds a humidor and a green glass ashtray the size of a dinner plate, overflowing with ashes and cigar ends. Dab has been forbidden to smoke his cigars downstairs, the man in the attic assumes. Dab has an old pewter spittoon beside the chair. There's half a roll of toilet paper, some Ex-Lax and a sliver of pink soap on the little shelf above the washbasin, which has a big rust-stained blot on the finely cracked porcelain; all of the bowl looks like a bloodshot eye.
For reading matter Dab has stocked mostly hardware catalogues and trade journals, a few copies of sportsmen's magazines,
He has at least a couple of minutes; no one else is on the stairs. The voice of Dabney Hill booms through the house.
"I guess the only time I've been more surprised is when I woke up the morning after my wedding night, and Ernestine says to me—
But he is interrupted by Ernestine's sink-unclogging laugh, followed by her admonition: "If you tell that one, Dab, the next time we all get together will be at your surprise funeral!"
Passing by the closed bathroom door, mindful of some give and squeak in the floorboards there, he hears the boy groaning inside, and the girl says breathlessly, "Let me lick it, Clifton, that'll for sure make it go in easier." Down the hall to the front of the house again. There is a parched rubber plant on a brass stand beneath the window. Next to the master bedroom is the door to the attic. He opens it. Dabney Hill is saying, "—but to be serious for just a minute, if I may, I feel truly blessed to have so many good friends, who have taken the trouble to come by tonight and help old Poop-Deck Pappy celebrate his fiftieth birthday, and I'm looking forward to seeing each and every one of you back here again when the one with the two big zeros rolls around." Applause. He pauses on the stairs; the attic is dark and warm and reeks of stale, settled-in cigar smoke. He takes out his pocket flashlight and searches the risers, looking for obstacles in his way. Then he climbs the stairs to the attic floor, checking the beams for headroom, which is adequate when he removes his rancher's straw.
No windows overlook the backyard, although the wall has been cut to allow for a half-ton air-conditioning unit Enough light penetrates the grime on the panes of the two small dormer windows on the front of the house so that after a couple of minutes he no longer needs the thin beam of the flashlight to get around without bumping into things: a child's rocking horse and playpen, a mounted deerhead ravaged by moths, a wardrobe filled with out-of-style clothing, twenty boxes of old books, papers, keepsakes, letters, Christmas ribbon and wrapping and ornaments. A gnomelike Santa Claus with a cottony beard and a red-lipped grin. A couple of dolls and doll furniture, a stack of children's board games. An old navy footlocker and seaman's bag, some trunks and other items of luggage.
Dab is saying, "Now I think my daughter has a few words before we get on with the cake-cutting, so all you kids with sweet tooth’s just settle down, and that goes for you too, Pearl Blaney —-"
The attic is unpartitioned . There is the housing of a ceiling fan positioned above the second-floor hallway, a toilet and a sink in the open where Dab has put down some carpeting and made a space for himself, a clubroom of sorts: the centerpiece is an octagonal poker table with the green baize in pretty good shape, a little gray in spots from rubbed- in cigar and cigarette ash. Stacks of chips and decks of cards in the center, glass ashtrays of various shapes and colors all around. Dab has hung a fluorescent fixture low over the table. There is a standing lamp behind an armchair with the fabric worn down to the stuffing in places, a footstool, a little table which holds a humidor and a green glass ashtray the size of a dinner plate, overflowing with ashes and cigar ends. Dab has been forbidden to smoke his cigars downstairs, the man in the attic assumes. Dab has an old pewter spittoon beside the chair. There's half a roll of toilet paper, some Ex-Lax and a sliver of pink soap on the little shelf above the washbasin, which has a big rust-stained blot on the finely cracked porcelain; all of the bowl looks like a bloodshot eye.
For reading matter Dab has stocked mostly hardware catalogues and trade journals, a few copies of sportsmen's magazines,
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