think she will sleep a long time now. But it would be nice to be there when she wakes up."
While she was in deep sleep, I collected all the soiled clothing and bedding. I took it into town and dropped it off. I bought supplies, When I got back she was still in almost the same position, making small snores, evenly spaced, barely audible. It took me until dusk to polish the big house. I kept looking in at her.
Then I went in and she made a sound like a whispered scream. She was sitting up. I turned the 4ghts on. Her eyes were huge and vague.
I stayed a cautious ten feet from her and said, 'I am Trav McGee. You've been sick. Dr. Ramirez was here. He'll be back tomorrow. I'll stay in the house, so you'll be completely safe."
"I feel so far away. I didn't have any dreams.
Page 29
Unless... unless this is one."
"I'm going to go fix you some soup. And bring you a pill."
"I don't want anything."
I arranged more agreeable lighting. She watched me. I had checked where things were kept. I found a sedate nightgown, a robe of Hong Kong silk, tossed them on the foot of the bed.
"If you're strong enough, Lois, get ready for bed while I fix the soup. The bathroom is clean now."
"What is going on? Who are you?"
"Mother McGee. Don't ask questions. Just accept."
I heated the canned soup, strengthened it with cream, fixed her one slice of toast with butter.
When I came back she was propped up in bed. She was wearing the nightgown and a bed jacket.
She had tied her tousled dark hair back, rubbed away the last trace of lipstick.
I'm wobbly," she said in a small shy voice.
"Can I have a drink?"
"That depends on how you do with the soup and toast."
"Soup maybe. Toast no."
"Can you feed yourself?"
"of course."
"Take the pill."
"what is it?"
"Dr. Ramirez called it a mild tranquilizer."
I sat nearby, She spooned the soup up. Her hand trembled. Her nails were clean and broken.
There was an old bruise, saffroned, on the side of her slender throat. She was too aware of my watching her and so I tried some mild chatter. Abstract theory by McGee. My tourist theory.
Any Ohioan crossing the state line into Florida should be fitted with a metal box that rests against the small of the back. Every ninety seconds a bell rings and a dollar bill emerges part way from a slot in the top of the box. The nearest native removes it. That would take care of the tipping problem. At places where hundreds of them flock together, the ringing of bells would be continuous.
It was difficult to amuse her. She was too close to being broken. The best I could achieve was a very small quick smile. She managed two thirds of the soup and two bites of toast. I set them aside. She slid down a little and yawned.
Page 30
"My drink?"
"In a little while."
She started to speak. Her eyes blurred and closed. in a few moments her mouth sagged open and she slept. In sleep the intense strain was gone and she looked younger. I turned the bedroom lights out. An hour later the phone rang. Someone wanted to sell us an attractive building lot at Marathon Heights.
As she slept I searched for the personal data.
I finally found the traditional steel box behind books in the living room. It opened readily with a bent paper clip. Birth certificate, marriage license, divorce decree, keys to a safedeposit box, miscellany of family materials income statements. I spread it out and pieQ together her current status. She had accepted a settlement at the time of divorce three years ago. The house was a part of it. Her income Was from a trust account in a bank in Hartford, Connecticut, a family trust setup whereby she received a little over seven hundred dollars a month and could not touch the principal amount. Her maiden name was Fairlea.
There was an elder brother in New Haven.
D. Harper Fairlea. On her hall table was a great stack of unopened mail. I checked it over and found that people were clamoring to have their bills paid, and in the stack I found her trust income checks,
While she was in deep sleep, I collected all the soiled clothing and bedding. I took it into town and dropped it off. I bought supplies, When I got back she was still in almost the same position, making small snores, evenly spaced, barely audible. It took me until dusk to polish the big house. I kept looking in at her.
Then I went in and she made a sound like a whispered scream. She was sitting up. I turned the 4ghts on. Her eyes were huge and vague.
I stayed a cautious ten feet from her and said, 'I am Trav McGee. You've been sick. Dr. Ramirez was here. He'll be back tomorrow. I'll stay in the house, so you'll be completely safe."
"I feel so far away. I didn't have any dreams.
Page 29
Unless... unless this is one."
"I'm going to go fix you some soup. And bring you a pill."
"I don't want anything."
I arranged more agreeable lighting. She watched me. I had checked where things were kept. I found a sedate nightgown, a robe of Hong Kong silk, tossed them on the foot of the bed.
"If you're strong enough, Lois, get ready for bed while I fix the soup. The bathroom is clean now."
"What is going on? Who are you?"
"Mother McGee. Don't ask questions. Just accept."
I heated the canned soup, strengthened it with cream, fixed her one slice of toast with butter.
When I came back she was propped up in bed. She was wearing the nightgown and a bed jacket.
She had tied her tousled dark hair back, rubbed away the last trace of lipstick.
I'm wobbly," she said in a small shy voice.
"Can I have a drink?"
"That depends on how you do with the soup and toast."
"Soup maybe. Toast no."
"Can you feed yourself?"
"of course."
"Take the pill."
"what is it?"
"Dr. Ramirez called it a mild tranquilizer."
I sat nearby, She spooned the soup up. Her hand trembled. Her nails were clean and broken.
There was an old bruise, saffroned, on the side of her slender throat. She was too aware of my watching her and so I tried some mild chatter. Abstract theory by McGee. My tourist theory.
Any Ohioan crossing the state line into Florida should be fitted with a metal box that rests against the small of the back. Every ninety seconds a bell rings and a dollar bill emerges part way from a slot in the top of the box. The nearest native removes it. That would take care of the tipping problem. At places where hundreds of them flock together, the ringing of bells would be continuous.
It was difficult to amuse her. She was too close to being broken. The best I could achieve was a very small quick smile. She managed two thirds of the soup and two bites of toast. I set them aside. She slid down a little and yawned.
Page 30
"My drink?"
"In a little while."
She started to speak. Her eyes blurred and closed. in a few moments her mouth sagged open and she slept. In sleep the intense strain was gone and she looked younger. I turned the bedroom lights out. An hour later the phone rang. Someone wanted to sell us an attractive building lot at Marathon Heights.
As she slept I searched for the personal data.
I finally found the traditional steel box behind books in the living room. It opened readily with a bent paper clip. Birth certificate, marriage license, divorce decree, keys to a safedeposit box, miscellany of family materials income statements. I spread it out and pieQ together her current status. She had accepted a settlement at the time of divorce three years ago. The house was a part of it. Her income Was from a trust account in a bank in Hartford, Connecticut, a family trust setup whereby she received a little over seven hundred dollars a month and could not touch the principal amount. Her maiden name was Fairlea.
There was an elder brother in New Haven.
D. Harper Fairlea. On her hall table was a great stack of unopened mail. I checked it over and found that people were clamoring to have their bills paid, and in the stack I found her trust income checks,
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