I stretched out on the bed, with the spread turned back so that my boots wouldn’t soil it. The window was open, and I could hear the crickets singing, like they always do after a rain. Now and then a bullfrog would sound off with a loud ‘kerrumph’, like a bass drummer keeping time. Way off across town, someone was pumping water, ‘p-plump, whish, p-plump, whish’, and you could hear some mother calling her kid, “‘Henry Clay, oooh, Hen-ry Clay Houston! You come home now!’” And the smell of fresh-washed soil was in the air, just about the nicest smell there is. And . . . and everything was fine.

It was so god-danged nice and peaceful that I dozed off again. Yes, sir, I went to sleep, even though I hadn’t had a real hard work day and I’d managed to catch up on my rest a little.

I guess I must have been asleep about an hour when I waked up to the sound of Myra yelling and Lennie bawling, and someone talking to ‘em—Amy Mason speaking her mind in a way that almost put your teeth on edge. Soft, but firm and cutting, like only Amy could speak when she had her dander up. You knew you’d better listen to what she was saying, when Amy spoke that way; you’d better listen and take it to heart or it would be too god-danged bad for you.

I knew it was having its effect on Myra, in spite of her yelling and trying to set defiant. She began to kind of whimper and whine, saying that Lennie didn’t mean anything by peeking in Amy’s window—he was just curious about people. Amy said she knew exactly what he meant, and he’d better not try any of his nasty tricks again if he knew what was good for him.

“I’ve already warned your husband,” she said, “and now I’m warning you, Mrs. Corey. If I catch your brother at my window again, I’ll take a horsewhip to him!”

“Y-You wouldn’t dare!” Myra whined. “And you just stop hurting him! Let go of the poor boy’s ear.”

“Gladly,” Amy said. “It makes my flesh crawl to touch him.”

I cracked the door open an inch or so, and looked out.

Myra had her arm around Lennie, who looked redfaced and mad and scared as she patted him on the head. Rose was standing next to her, trying to appear concerned and protective. But I knew, knowing her so well, that she was laughing inside, tickled pink to see Myra catching it for a change. As for Amy . . .

I swallowed hard, looking at her, wondering what I’d ever seen in Rose after I’d had someone like Amy.

Not that she was any prettier than Rose, or built any better. You just couldn’t fault Rose on prettiness or build no matter who you stood her up against. The difference, I guess, was something that came from the inside, something that kind of grabbed hold of you right around the heart, that left its mark on you like a brand, so that the feel of her and the memory of her was always with you no matter where you strayed.