“What’s going on?”

Sylvia stopped and fell back on her elbows, panting. The four buttons on her Indian top were unfastened and I could see the side of each breast. “We’re playing,” she said breathlessly. “I didn’t think we were being that loud.”

“How . . . did you get here?” For some reason, I couldn’t broach the obvious.

“I passed out on the floor and woke up on the couch. Frank must have put me there.” Very matter-of-fact, not a trace of apology in her voice.

“What time is it?”

“I don’t know.” And obviously didn’t care.

“Mommy, Sylvia said you could grow your hair long if you wanted to. Will you?”

“I don’t want my hair long.”

“Well, I’m gonna grow mine.”

“It’ll get in your eyes.”

“I like it in my eyes. I can look through it.”

“You’ve got pretty eyes,” said Sylvia. “Just like your father.”

I walked past them into the kitchen. I set up the coffeepot. While it perked, I made myself a cup of instant. Their giggling started up again. I sat at the table, seething and preparing what I was going to say to Frank. I wanted a clear head, I wanted to be alone with Frank for the whole day, and more than anything I wanted the night before to be completely erased. I wanted Sylvia out of my house and I wanted to forget that bold, suggestive look on Bernie Golden’s face.

The giggling stopped. Everything was too quiet. When I got to the living room, they weren’t there. I knew they couldn’t be outside, because Regina was still in her nightie. I didn’t want to suspect what I was suspecting, but the shrill laugh—Sylvia’s laugh—that shot down the stairs was a clear invitation to battle.

I found the two of them on the bed, tickling Frank. He was squirming around, wrapped up in the sheet, and he had the pillow over his head. No one noticed me, so I stood and watched. Until Sylvia’s hand went under the sheet.

“Since everyone’s awake,” I said, “I think we’d better have breakfast.” The announcement was for the three of them, but my eyes were on Sylvia. She looked back dumbly. All right, bitch, let’s see you start hopping. “Sylvia, would you take Regina downstairs? Frank and I have to get dressed.” She took Regina by the hand and left. Frank sat up against the pillows and smiled until he read the look on my face.

“Honey, what’s wrong?”

“You haven’t got the slightest idea?” He shook his head. “Well, that’s what’s wrong.”

“Tell me. What is it?”

“It’s so obvious! What is she doing here?”

“She passed out last night and slept on the couch.”

“Yes, she told me that much.”

“You don’t think . . . You know better than that.”

“Do I?”

“Stop it. She passed out and slept on the couch. Why make something out of that?”

“Why? Because this isn’t a flophouse! Because she thinks she can do as she damn pleases here. She pulls out the grass as if she’s running the place, she decides what music everyone is going to hear, she doesn’t leave your side the whole night, she feels perfectly free to pass out on our floor, and then she has the gall to come into our room while you’re still in bed and to run her hand under the sheet. Now ask me what’s wrong!”