But soon it was July and still Clinton would not leave his bed. He would awaken at dawn and listen to all the morning sounds: the dry swoosh of Mrs. Cardoni’s broom on the back porch of the house next door, a variety of bird songs, the stopping and starting of the J. F. Smith milk truck on its rounds. Midmorning, he would close his eyes, trying to pretend to himself that he was asleep. But this kind of fake rest does no one any good, as it is full of wakeful dreams: ugly memories put you in a fog that is hard to throw off later. Annabel brought his first meal at noon, and the hours that followed were endless affairs to deal with. Much of the time he spent just lying there staring at various objects for long periods, or propped up on an extra pillow with the Sears, Roebuck catalogue or the dictionary opened on his lap. Or he would look out the window, not even seeing the roof of the garage or the trees in the yard across the alley. In general, Clinton was not having a good time.

But he could think of no good reason for getting out of bed. He did not want to look for work; he did not want to visit the Old Neighborhood or sit at the Aloha Sweet Shop; and he did not want to sit downstairs under Annabel’s eye. He began vaguely to realize that he was in a kind of trap; but there seemed to be no will power in him, and he could not concentrate on figuring a way out of it.

His favorite time of day was five o’clock, the hour of Annabel’s long afternoon bath. The minute he heard the first splash of water in the tub, he would bolt out of his bed and run silently, barefoot, all over the house performing small errands for himself. First, he went on a sniping tour of all the ash trays, gathering enough butts to last him through the evening. Then he checked Annabel’s writing desk for any fresh mail she might have received that morning. If these letters were insufficiently interesting to warrant copying down in the notebook, which he carried with him for this purpose, he spent the time going through her desk drawers and reading any mail received in June during his absence.

There had been an exchange of correspondence between Annabel and Bernice O’Brien which was of considerable interest to him. The first letter read as follows:

DEAREST ANNABEL,

Such beautiful weather here. Echo took me for drive in country Sun. aft., wildflowers everywhere. I thrive in summer, but Echo very restless. So pathetic, gets dolled up, takes drive, comes home. No place to go. Stands at front door, looking at her car in driveway, so proud of it. Odd hobby for girl, but loves motors, tools. I have full-time nurse now, so Echo free on weekends. Recent painful experience of very private nature took her out of swim of things, does not meet new people. Gets dolled up and rattles her car keys. Hard time sitting still. So lovable, and not a complainer. But God will find way.