White rang the bell. At times he seemed to be claiming pity from her; at times he was threatening her with her check and exposure; at times he was boasting of his inflexible will, and how, in the end, he always got what he wanted. The boy she had loved was gone. Mercifully, John had been sick for two of the three days of Thanksgiving week, giving her reprieve from both his presence and the machinations of Katy Pfister, who was always less active on days when he was not around. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. She could smell the sweet girl child he had buried in the garage in autumn, 1 even under the frozen ground. “I’m five years older than you, and no end wiser, being a man. . ‘And me, I am a lady. Across the blackboard the colored chalks flew like flights of variously tinted rockets as diagram after diagram flickered into being. ’ ‘You’re going to break into the house? You’re mad.
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