the Children's Wing were always locked, and his bedroom smelled of pee and throw-up. The maids said it was his imagination, it smelled fine. They refused to scrub it anymore.
He'd been in Doctor's room a couple of times, going through the drawers, squeezing the soft, striped underwear and the blue pajamas with white trim around the edges and Doctor's initials on the front pocket. The rest of the stuff was socks, sweaters; suits and pants in the closet-all boring. The only interesting thing he'd ever come across was a thick black fountain pen with a gold tip, kind of stuck between two sweaters, hiding from him. He stole it, took it into his room, and tried to write with it, and when it didn't work he snashed it with a hammer until it turned into black dust. He tasted it. It was bad and he spit it out, wiping his tongue to get the grit off, trails of grayish drool trickling down his chin.
The ice palace was always locked. Of course. She only let him in there when she was really drunk and needed him to get her an aspirin from the bathroom. Or when Sarah came to visit, which was only two or three times a year but always got her upset.
On Sarah days, she was always calling for him in a high, wiggly voice that was kind of scary-'Darling! Come he-ere! Daarling'-telling him to get into bed, drawing him in under the slimy-satin covers and putting a soft, bare arm around his shoulder. He could feel her hand squeezing him, soft and weet and sticky, her mouth breathing all that gin-breath on him. hot and sweet, but a disgusting sweet, like she'd been throwing up candy.
On Sarah days, she'd get really disgusting, lean over him so that her titties were pushing into his chest, the tops all white and shaky. Sometimes she'd lean real low so that he could look down and see the nipples, like big pink gumdrops.
Slurping his cheek and saying, 'Come on, baby, tell Mama. Is that nasty little bitch high-hatting you? Is she lording it over you, is she?' While she'd be slobbering all over him, the cat would stare at him, all jealous, sneak a scratch in, then pull back so you couldn't accuse it of anything.
He didn't understand what she was talking about-high-hatting, lording-so he just shrugged and looked away from her, which got her going again, waving her empty glass and talking all wiggly.
'Little snot, thinks she's so much better than you and me, thinks she's so goddamned smart-they always do. Too smart for their own damned good, the chosen people, yeah. Chosen to ruin the world, right? Answer me!'
Shrug.
'Cat got your tongue, eh? Or maybe she spooked you- the chosen people hex. Ha. Chosen for big noses, if you ask me. Don't you think her nose is big? She's horrid and ugly, don't you think? Don't you?'
He actually thought Sarah was okay. She was seven years older, which made her sixteen, almost a grown-up, and kind of pretty, with thick dark hair, soft brown eyes, and a wide, pretty mouth. Her nose looked okay to him, too, but he didn't say so, just shrugged.
'Horrid little bitch'
Even though she stayed in the room next to his, they didn't see each other much. Sarah was either swimming or reading or calling her mother at her hotel, or going out at night with Doctor. But when they passed each other in the hall she always smiled at him, said hi. One time she brought a tin of sugared fruits all the way from the city where she lived and shared it with him, didn't even mind when he ate all the cherries.
'Don't you think she's terrible-a horrid little hook-nosed nothing? Answer me, damn you!'
He felt his arm being pinched hard, twisted between cold, wet fingers. Bit his lip to keep from crying out.
'Isn't she!'
'Sure, Mom.'
'She really is a little bitch, you know. If you were older you'd understand. Ten years it's been and she still won't give me the time of day, the conceited little kike-kikette! Isn't that a fun way to say it, darling?'
'Sure, Mom.'
A hot, ginny sigh and a wet-hand hug, the fingers digging in as if for another pinch, then opening and rubbing him. Down his arm to his wrist, dropping onto his leg. Rubbing.
'We're all we've got, darling. I'm so glad we can confide in each other this way.'
Sarah's mother always brought her. A taxi would drop them off in front of the house; Sarah would get out first, then her mother. Her mother would kiss her good-bye, walk her to the door, but never come inside. She was a short, dark woman named Lillian, kind of pretty-Sarah looked a lot like her. She wore fancy clothes-shiny dresses, shoes with really high heels, long coats with fur collars, sometimes a hat with a veil-and she smiled a lot. One time she caught him looking at her through the living room window, smiled and waved before she got in the taxi and rode off. He thought it was a pretty nice smile.
If Doctor was home, he'd go outside and talk to Lillian, shake her hand, and pick up Sarah's suitcases. They seemed to like each other, talking all friendly, as if they had lots to talk about, and he couldn't figure out why, if they got along so good, they'd gotten divorced. He wondered if his mother and
Doctor had ever been friendly like that. As long as he could remember, it had always been fighting, the night-wars.
Twice during each visit Doctor and Sarah went out to-gether. Once for dinner, once for ice cream. He knew about it because he heard them talking, planning what they were going to eat. Rack of lamb. Prime rib. Baked Alaska. Rice pudding.
His mother heard it, too, called him in and whispered in his
'They're a pair of little piggies, absolutely disgusting.
They go to nice places and eat like pigs and people stare at them. I refuse to go along anymore-it's disgusting. You should see his shirts when he's through. She eats chocolate ice cream and gets it all over herself. Her dresses look like used toilet paper!'
He thought of that, chocolate ice cream stains looking like shit stains, and wondered what people shit tasted like.
One time he'd taken a tiny piece of the cat's shit out of the letter box and put it on his tongue and then spit it
