Then she was up, swaying on her feet; sliding a dress over her head, wriggling her shoulders and hips, humming loudly to herself. It was dangerous for Marya or Davy to approach her from the rear, she might turn on them, strike out blindly with the flat of her hand.

In the night, she said, he came to get her. Rapped on the window, tugged at her covers, wanted to slide in with her. He wasn’t going to be left behind.

The telephone often rang late at night, there were frequently cars, strangers’ cars, in the driveway. One or two of the sheriff’s deputies dropped by “just to check.” Some of the men hauled in cases of beer, bottles of whiskey, even soda pop; even bags of groceries. Vera left the baby with a woman friend in the Falls because his crying got on her nerves: she might lose her temper, she explained, and do something she’d regret.

Marya and Davy learned not to snivel either, or get in her way.

On her bad days, sick groggy headachey vomiting days, the bedroom stank and Marya wouldn’t go near. Men knocked on the front door and called Vera’s name. Sometimes they came around to the rear, sometimes they even threaded their way through the shrubs and thistles to peer into the windows. They were drunk, or angry, or simply in high spirits—it wasn’t possible to tell which.

Marya and Davy hid behind the winter coats in the clothes closet, waiting for them to go away.

Sheer good luck, but Vera was up and dressed and cold sober when a woman from the county services dropped by. There were complaints, she said uneasily. What kind of complaints, said Vera. About the children, the woman said. What children, said Vera. Marya and David and I believe there’s a baby, the woman said. “Marya and David and I believe there’s a baby,” Vera mimicked. Her own wit vastly amused her; she surrendered to peals of laughter. She wasn’t drunk, she’d even taken a bath and shampooed her hair that morning, except for her puffy swollen eyes she looked pretty good. She looked like Vera Sanjek had always looked.

The next day she promised Marya and Davy that things would be better, quieter. She had a friend who respected her, thought the world of her. . . . She wouldn’t have to take any more shit from anybody if their plans worked out.

Ft. Hanna was mentioned for a while, then Kincardine. Kincardine was on a river, she told Marya. There’d be sailboats, motorboats, yachts. Did Marya know what a yacht was?—a big white boat that could take you anywhere you wanted to go.