damp clothes, dropping them to the floor in a heap as she made for the bathroom.
She felt a little better after showering. She brought in the cheap Woolworth's fan from her bedroom and planted it by the TV.
Switching both of them on, she settled back naked on the couch, eyes half closed, and listened to the reading of the news.
Except for the weather, it had been a normal day. The city was closing another hospital; vandals had defaced a statue of Alice in Wonderland in Central Park; blacks were charging police brutality in the arrest of a so-called 'voodoo priest'; the mayor had presided at a fashion show; a girl's head had been found in a trash can near the Columbia campus; and Con Ed was warning consumers to 'go slow' this week on the use of air conditioners. The catalogue was curiously soothing, a meaningless litany. It was almost enough to sleep to.
'Fireman in the Brownsville section of Brooklyn battled a six-alarm blaze that took the lives of at least seven persons, all but two of them children. And now-'
Behind her the buzzer sounded. She roused herself and went to the intercom.
'Package from a Mr Rosebottom.'
She buzzed him in and, stepping into the bedroom, wrapped herself in her bathrobe. A minute later the doorbell rang; she turned down the TV and went to answer it.
'Sign here, please,' said the delivery boy, handing her a flat grey cardboard box, then a slip of yellow paper and a pencil. He seemed bemused at finding an attractive girl in her robe waiting for him and looked as if he were struggling to think of something clever to say. She felt his eyes on her as she scribbled her name, and pulled the bathrobe tighter. 'Thanks, honey,' he said, a flicker of a smile. 'Enjoy it.'
She saw, when she'd gotten the box open, that Rosie had sent her another dress. It was old-fashioned looking, cut similarly to the first – maybe if she felt ambitious she could take it in a bit – but the color, this time, was dark green. Consider this a replacement, he had written in a note. At least this one won't show grass stains!
In the box with it, wrapped in tissue paper, he'd enclosed a second-hand book, a slim brown antique-looking volume whose spine had long since been rubbed clean of lettering. The title page read, The Ridpath Dance Series, Volume TV. On the Folk-Dances of Umbria and Tuscany. Newly translated into English. New York, 18J7. Idly she flipped through it. There were several crude line drawings of peasants dancing in various ungainly costumes, faces utterly expressionless, but most of the book was filled with diagrams, a mass of footprints and black arrows. She thought she recognized a few simple steps – there was one promenade that seemed right out of 'The Cunning Vixen' – but it was difficult to imagine what most of the others must look like. She put the book aside; probably Rosie would know.
Once again the dress bore no label – Wherever does he find these things? she wondered – and, as before, the material felt like silk. Shrugging off her robe, she slipped the dress over her head and examined herself in the mirror on the closet door, pressing the cloth against her belly, breasts, and hips. Like the first dress, now safely packed off to the cleaners, its hemline was cut rather high, and she realized that, once more, she was going to have to keep her knees tight together when she wore it. Maybe Rosie found her legs exciting; or else he just didn't know the length young women were wearing their skirts these days.
She would have to call him to thank him – he's really spoiling me, she decided – but she was feeling too tired now. Still in the dress, she returned to the couch. The cloth felt smooth and cool against her bare skin; there was something a little bit sinful about it. She lay back and stretched her legs. The TV, with its volume down, was practically inaudible.
'Unprecedented temperatures,' someone was saying. 'Freak storms. .. ' She ran her hand inside the collar, touching her neck. 'Warm air masses over New Jersey… '
New Jersey. Visions of the countryside, the peaceful blue skies of the farm, came back to her in the breeze from the fan. She remembered tiny silver fishes darting in the stream, the fields of young corn, Sarr and Deborah and the kittens.
'Reports of thunder,' the TV was saying. 'Changes in the atmosphere… ' She ran her hand deeper beneath the dress, closed her eyes, and thought of Jeremy.
Thunder last night, but heard no rain. Wonder if the weather's affected the stream, because walking by it today, I noticed it's becoming clogged with algae.
Chicken amp; dumplings for dinner. Had three helpings. Deborah didn't seem to mind.
Northanger Abbey, Jane Austen, 1818, chapters one through seven. Not the parody I'd expected – the mock-Gothic bit obviously isn't central to the story – but witty nonetheless. Fun to picture Deborah in the leading role.
Love stories tend to bore me, but this one's proved quite bearable so far.
Bwada seems to be almost completely healed now, at least outwardly, though still may have some sort of throat obstruction. When she miaows there's a different timbre, a kind of huskiness. Sarr's mother is coming tomorrow to look at her.
Read some more Le Fanu in bed. 'Green Tea,' about a phantom monkey with eyes that glow, amp; 'The Familiar,' about a staring little man who drives the hero mad. In neither case – cf. de Maupassant's 'The Horla' – is the hero sure just why he's been singled out.
Not the smartest choices right now, the way I feel, because for all the time that fat grey cat purrs over the Poroths, she just stares at me. And snarls. I suppose the accident may have addled her brain a bit, or perhaps she somehow blames me for it, or has forgotten who I am, or something… Can a cat's personality change like that?
Petted Toby tonight, the little orange one – my favorite of the bunch, the one I like to play with even though my nose gets clogged amp; my ears tear. Came away with a tick on my arm which I didn't discover till I undressed for bed. A tiny flat thing, paper thin, like a squashed spider; it was dull red, no doubt from having made a meal for itself on my blood. As a result, I can still feel, even now, imaginary ticks crawling up amp; down my spine.
Damned cat.
July Thirteenth
Another poor night's sleep. Awakened sometime shortly before dawn by thunder, not so distant now. Once or twice I swear it shook the ground. No sense to it at all; the weather had been mild enough when I went to bed, amp; it's just the same right now, with not a sign of rain. Maybe the noise was caused by 'heat lightning' – you sometimes read about such things; but though I sat up for half an hour last night peering through the screens, I saw no lightning.
I did hear someone singing (or trying to) very late, out toward the farmhouse and the road. Possibly just an old tramp out on some night-time excursion, but it didn't sound like one. It's hard to tell, though, when you're half asleep; maybe it was only Sarr or Deborah gargling in the bathroom.
I've been thinking a lot about Deborah lately – about how little Sarr seems to appreciate her. Sure, he grabs her all the time amp; obviously likes having her around, but I wonder if he wouldn't feel the same way toward any woman within reach. Still can't decide if anything went on between him amp; Carol.
For that matter, I wonder just how much Deborah really cares for him. He's tall amp; powerfully built, sure, if you happen to like that type. (And I guess most women do.) But guys like that can sometimes be so goddamned boring…
Of course, Deborah might not mind being bored. Anyone who could spend all day shelling peas, or shoving seeds into holes, or praying on her knees, obviously has a pretty high boredom threshold. Still, I can't help thinking that Deborah's interested in me. She's certainly attentive enough, giving me all that good food, taking my side against Sarr whenever disagreements arise. And she certainly is looking good these days, the more I see of her. That long black dress may cover her up to the neck, but the cloth is thin (thank God for summer!), amp; I'm sure she wears nothing beneath it.
I know it's wrong to have these thoughts, no doubt the loneliness is getting to me, but I can't help wondering if Sarr ever goes off by himself in the evening – a night out with the boys, maybe. I sure wouldn't mind being alone with Deborah some time…
This morning, though, all three of us were together, up in the work area Sarr's constructed in the attic of the barn. The two of them were cutting strips of molding for the extra room upstairs, and I was helping, more or less. I measured, Sarr sawed, Deborah sanded. All in all I hardly felt useful, but what the hell?
While they were busy I stood staring out the window. There's a narrow flagstone path running from the barn
