watching him as he turned the things over and shook them against his cupped hand. Anne never cooked, never used anything in this kitchen, she and Harry ate out, so these things were barely familiar to her. Then, with what was really quite a normal gesture, the boy unscrewed the head off the little woman and poured the salt inside onto a saucer.
Someone shrieked in terror. It was the floppy-haired boy; he was yelling, horrified. Anne was confused for an instant. Was Harry dying again? Was Harry all right? The boy was howling, his eyes rolling in his head. The others looked at him dully. One of the girls giggled. “Uh-oh,” she said.
Two of the boys were trying to quiet him. They all looked like Harry, even the boy who was screaming.
“You’d better take him to the emergency room,” Anne said.
“Maybe if he just gets a little air, walks around, gets some air,” a boy said.
“You’d all better go now,” Anne said.
It was not yet dawn, still very dark. Anne sat there alone in the bright kitchen in her black dress. There was a run in her stocking. The dinner in the restaurant had cost almost a thousand dollars, and Harry probably wouldn’t even have liked it. She hadn’t liked it. She wanted to behave differently now, forHarry’s sake. He hadn’t been perfect, Harry, he’d been a very troubled boy, a very misunderstood boy, but she had never let him go, never, until now. She knew that he couldn’t be aware of that, that she now had let him go. She knew that between them, from now on, she alone would be the one who realized things. She wasn’t going to deceive herself in that regard. Even so, she knew she wasn’t thinking clearly about this.
After some time, she got up and packed a duffel bag for Africa, exactly the way she had done before. The bag and its contents could weigh no more than twenty-two pounds. When she was finished, she put it in the hallway by the door. Outside it was still dark, as dark as it had been hours ago, though this scarcely seemed possible.
Perhaps she would go back to Africa.
There was a knock on the door. Anne looked at it, startled, a thick door with locks. Then she opened it. A girl was standing there, not the
interplanetary
one but another, one who had particularly relished the dinner. She had been standing there smoking for a while before she knocked. Several cigarette butts were ground into the high-gloss cerulean of the porch.
“May I come in?” the girl asked.
“Why, no,” Anne said. “No, you may not.”
“Please,” the girl said.
Anne shut the door.
She went into the kitchen and threw the two parts of the salt shaker into the trash. She tossed the small lady’s companion in as well. Harry had once said to her, “Look, this is amazing, I don’t know how this could have happened but I have these spikes in my head. They must have been there for a while, but I swear, I swear to you, I just noticed them. But I got them out! On the left side. But on the right side it’s more difficultbecause they’re in a sort of helmet, and the helmet is fused to my head, see? Can you help me?”
She had helped him then. She had stroked his hair with her fingers for a long, long time. She had been very careful, very thorough. But that had been a unique situation. Usually, she couldn’t help him.
There was a sound at the door again, a determined knocking. Anne walked to it quickly and opened it. There were several of Harry’s friends there, not just the girl but not all of them either.
“You don’t have to be so rude,” one of them said.
They were angry. They had lost Harry, she thought, and they missed him.
“We loved Harry too, you know,” one of them said. His tie was loose, and his breath was sweet and dry, like sand.
“I want to rest now,” Anne said. “I must get some rest.”
“Rest,” one of them said in a soft, scornful voice. He glanced at the others. They ignored him.
“Tell us another story about Harry,” one of them said. “We didn’t
Someone shrieked in terror. It was the floppy-haired boy; he was yelling, horrified. Anne was confused for an instant. Was Harry dying again? Was Harry all right? The boy was howling, his eyes rolling in his head. The others looked at him dully. One of the girls giggled. “Uh-oh,” she said.
Two of the boys were trying to quiet him. They all looked like Harry, even the boy who was screaming.
“You’d better take him to the emergency room,” Anne said.
“Maybe if he just gets a little air, walks around, gets some air,” a boy said.
“You’d all better go now,” Anne said.
It was not yet dawn, still very dark. Anne sat there alone in the bright kitchen in her black dress. There was a run in her stocking. The dinner in the restaurant had cost almost a thousand dollars, and Harry probably wouldn’t even have liked it. She hadn’t liked it. She wanted to behave differently now, forHarry’s sake. He hadn’t been perfect, Harry, he’d been a very troubled boy, a very misunderstood boy, but she had never let him go, never, until now. She knew that he couldn’t be aware of that, that she now had let him go. She knew that between them, from now on, she alone would be the one who realized things. She wasn’t going to deceive herself in that regard. Even so, she knew she wasn’t thinking clearly about this.
After some time, she got up and packed a duffel bag for Africa, exactly the way she had done before. The bag and its contents could weigh no more than twenty-two pounds. When she was finished, she put it in the hallway by the door. Outside it was still dark, as dark as it had been hours ago, though this scarcely seemed possible.
Perhaps she would go back to Africa.
There was a knock on the door. Anne looked at it, startled, a thick door with locks. Then she opened it. A girl was standing there, not the
interplanetary
one but another, one who had particularly relished the dinner. She had been standing there smoking for a while before she knocked. Several cigarette butts were ground into the high-gloss cerulean of the porch.
“May I come in?” the girl asked.
“Why, no,” Anne said. “No, you may not.”
“Please,” the girl said.
Anne shut the door.
She went into the kitchen and threw the two parts of the salt shaker into the trash. She tossed the small lady’s companion in as well. Harry had once said to her, “Look, this is amazing, I don’t know how this could have happened but I have these spikes in my head. They must have been there for a while, but I swear, I swear to you, I just noticed them. But I got them out! On the left side. But on the right side it’s more difficultbecause they’re in a sort of helmet, and the helmet is fused to my head, see? Can you help me?”
She had helped him then. She had stroked his hair with her fingers for a long, long time. She had been very careful, very thorough. But that had been a unique situation. Usually, she couldn’t help him.
There was a sound at the door again, a determined knocking. Anne walked to it quickly and opened it. There were several of Harry’s friends there, not just the girl but not all of them either.
“You don’t have to be so rude,” one of them said.
They were angry. They had lost Harry, she thought, and they missed him.
“We loved Harry too, you know,” one of them said. His tie was loose, and his breath was sweet and dry, like sand.
“I want to rest now,” Anne said. “I must get some rest.”
“Rest,” one of them said in a soft, scornful voice. He glanced at the others. They ignored him.
“Tell us another story about Harry,” one of them said. “We didn’t
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