Janet shrugged indifferently. “You’ve got a lot of books,” she said, indicating the volumes stacked on the floor. “Orange crates make tremendous bookcases. Painted different colors.” She waved her hand and left. When she was gone the apartment was quiet and empty. Gaby put away her order, aware that now she would have to go down the hill again for more peanut butter, jam and bread. She cut two strips of adhesive tape and typed GABRIELLE PENDER on one and ADAM R. SILVERSTONE, M.D. on the other and then fixed them both outside over the rusted black metal mailbox.

At the market she replaced the items she had given the digger girl and on impulse asked for and was given six orange crates. They filled the Plymouth to capacity. On the way home she made a stop at the hardware store and bought two brushes and paint thinner and cans of black, pumpkin, and white enamel.

The rest of the day was lavished on the project. She spread that morning’s newspaper on the floor and worked meticulously and without stopping, painting two boxes in each color, wanting it to come out well so she could surprise Adam. When all six boxes were painted she cleaned the brushes and put them away under the sink with the paint cans and took a long shower and got into pajamas. She had been unhappy about her arrangement of their things in the dresser drawers and now she took half the things out of his drawers and half the things out of her drawers and swapped them around until all the compartments were co-ed, his socks nestling next to her stockings, her panties stacked primly beside his Jockey shorts. Under her blouses and bordering on his shirts she tucked the little round fake mother-of-pearl box containing the pills that were the touchstones of their relationship, the magic potions which allowed them their life together.

She studied until ten o’clock then locked the door, fastened the chain lock, took one of the horrible little pills, turned off the lights and got into bed.

Lying in the dark was loneliest, she decided after a while.

The apartment was semi-solid with the smell of paint. Mrs. Krol screamed three times but her heart didn’t seem to be in it and she threw nothing out of the window that made a noise when it struck the ground. From the direction of the Massachusetts General an ambulance siren moaned and it made her feel close to Adam. When cars went by on Phillips Street their headlamps continued to make monsters that chased each other off the walls.

She had begun to doze when somebody knocked.

She leaped out of bed and stood behind the door in the dark, opening it just the bare crack that the little chain allowed.

“Who is it?”

“Janet sent me.”