In front of the London Junction Hotel bar she caught a glimpse of Papa laughing with a big man who must be Mr. Hartwell. This was the Papa they never saw any more, the gay laughing Papa with hat on the side of his head and the half-smoked cigar in his hand. Marcia looked at him a long time, feeling lonesome for him, as if he’d been away a long time. But even as she watched, the two men separated; Papa looked at his watch, straightened his hat, waved his hand, and as Mr. Hartwell took his sample case inside the hotel Papa seemed to change. His shoulders slumped, his footsteps dragged slowly and he walked with his eyes bent on the ground.

When she got home Marcia knocked on the back screen door, was let in silently by her stepmother, gave her the stamped envelopes She had requested, and tiptoed carefully up the steps, being careful not to touch the railing or put her heels on the stairs. She was supposed to wash her hands and clean up Minelda before lunch, a touchy chore, since Minelda screamed whenever anyone washed her, and her mother kept calling up frantically to stop torturing the child, sometimes dashing up to cuff Marcia and finish the job herself, unconvinced even when Minelda yelled all the louder at the change in hands. Marcia thought of the hanging gardens of Nebuchadrezzar as she combed Minelda’s skimpy locks; they were all mixed up with the new high school playground with the fountain playing in the center. In one of Grandpa’s books, now locked in the parlor bookcase, there were pictures of ancient Babylon and all the places described in general history. Grandpa had given the book to her, but She had taken it away at his death and locked it up even though he’d written “Marcia’s book” on the flyleaf. Marcia felt an overwhelming urge to have this book, to hide it and take it with her wherever she went, so that someday if she should meet David Gross she could say, “I know about those things too.” Minelda was calm today and Marcia left her without any tumult, creeping down the front stairs into the dark parlor, reaching with trembling fingers into the vase where Florrie said the keys were now kept. She found it and with pounding heart was about to unlock the bookcase when she heard the voice of Vance in the back hallway. Marcia frantically slid behind the huge armchair, fortunately placed in the corner, and with an awful sinking sensation heard Vance and her stepmother come into the room.

“I don’t want Harry to find you here, Vance; you know how he is,” Mrs. Willard murmured fretfully. “Goodness knows, I’ve got my hands full without bringing on another fight. Now what is it? Hurry, before he gets here.”

“Keep your shirt on,” Vance replied in an aggrieved tone. He lit a cigarette and threw the match at the fireplace without a word of reproach from his sister. Marcia was relieved that they were sitting down with their backs to her, at least, but she was afraid she might cough and nothing short of death would be the penalty for being discovered here.