Within the week, I had spent the last of my odd-­job money scrounging the basics for my apartment—mattress, chest of drawers, linen, kitchen table, and chairs. I needed a job.

My luck was running. The first day out, I was hired as an operator for a telephone-­answering serv­ice.

The weeks went by. A new life unfolded before me, and I began to understand Lewis’s point of view for the first time. There was pleasure to be found in responsibility. There was pleasure—almost animalis­tic pleasure—in nesting and feathering one’s nest. Other animalistic urges filled my dreams and much of my waking hours, but I had not forgotten the sickness with the medicated lamb, nor had I forgotten the feeling of inferiority when I sat, sick and confused, in the corner while Sarah and her perfect baby radiated such health before me.

I avoided the night. I was afraid, for the first time, of the night, of its hold over me, its relentless pa­tience. I could see where I had been crazy once—seriously mentally ill—but I had put all that be­hind me. I had a chance to make a new start in life, and I was pursuing it. I had a life in the daytime; I wanted no part of the night tide that turned my mind.

I bought furnishings for my small apartment, bought new clothes for myself. I began to dress like a young lady, with nice summer dresses and jackets and slacks and tops that were becoming to my petite figure. My apartment began to assume a personality of its own, with draperies and creative use of some discarded materials and plenty of fabric. It was not fancy—it was just all mine.

The answering service consisted of five switch­boards filled with message lights and holes, and we used old-­fashioned cords, plugs, and headsets. I en­joyed my work, talking with the faceless population, taking messages. Three of us worked during the peak morning and evening hours, two during the daytime, and one at night. Mrs. Gardener and her secretary worked in the office on the other side of a glass window, where they kept an eagle’s eye on us.

Most surprising to me was how much I could enjoy the companionship of the girls with whom I worked. Eventually I even began to feel as one of them.

I learned to laugh.

In my off-­hours, I explored the town, which seemed small only at first glance. Behind Main Street, with its facade and after-­ski entertainment for the visitors, were the shopping malls and warehouses and little suburbs where the local people lived. There was little poverty. It was a pleasant place; it appealed to my latent snobbery.