Partway through, when he spoke of Jamie or just after, she opened her eyes, gazing up at the ceiling. Then closed them again. Her features spread evenly over her face as if calm. Or held down placid under urgent control. Or a slackness of fatigue so complete as to create a vision of composure. Or a resignation almost chemical in her, chemical if the soul were made of compounds and elements.

Her eyes still closed she said, “That boy be fine.”

His voice low now, through his teeth. “Jamie. I’m talking about Jamie. Not some boy.”

One eyebrow stirred, settled, a fine etched arch. “You all. You all be fine. Leave me alone, Norman.”

“No. I left you alone a month now.”

“You keep right on.” And her eyes still closed she lifted one hand and made a throwing-away motion. “You doing a good job at it.”

“No,” he said. “I’m done with it. Done with humoring you. Done with watching these children try and do the same. Time you got a hold of yourself.”

She opened her eyes and looked at him. She smiled. Terrible as a skull. Her eyes flat with anger, hatred. Far worse, pity. “Oh, a hold of myself. Mister you got no idea how good a hold I got. The rest of it, you be done with whatever you want. It don’t change nothing with me. You, you need to learn to be satisfied with me. That’s all you get. It’s a terrible thing over me, ain’t nothing to be shared with nobody, not nobody here. So, you think on that. Think maybe you all spared some things. I ain’t hurt you; I ain’t hurt them children, don’t matter what you think, all of you. I ain’t hurt none of you.” She closed her eyes again.

He stood and, standing, did not know why he was up. He made a step toward her and stopped. Turned, looked out the window. Nothing there. Same as always, each thing of outside broken by the sixteen panes and fluid with the old glass. He looked back at her. His hands itched and worked before him, wanting to take something up, rend it, shred it, peel it off away down to a core. He looked at her and imagined striking her and felt in his chest the heat of satisfaction and his stomach wrench up with disgust. He said, “You’re hurting each one of us, every day. Hurting yourself too.”

“Oh Lord,” she said, speaking not he felt so much to him as out into the space around her, as if it were not vacant but filled up, peopled. “Ain’t hurting nobody, ain’t hurting nobody no more. Can’t be done, can’t do worse. All I do is hold on tight and not hurt nobody. You got no idea. You can’t even begin. You know it and I know it too; Lord Jesus and his Father they got more in mind than little piddly you and me and what we like or can’t stand. I was lifted up, thought I was lifting myself, dropped down longside you thinking I’d been made new. No not made. Given. Thought it was what, salvation? Reward? No. No, no. I wasn’t never that stupid. Thought maybe it was the chance to do right, do good, do what I could all my own. Thought that was enough. Thought that was a blessing. Didn’t think it so much as knew.