“Principe mio.” Wrapping her arms around her brother’s neck, Annie kissed his cheek.

“Where are your shoes?” he said.

“Lost them somewhere.”

He asked Ruth to come in, but she shook her head.

“Thanks, Miss Winters,” Annie called back.

As Ruth pulled out, she thought of Judy, of what happens to supple youth, of how calloused we become under the constant worrying of our senses, how most of us are condemned to grow into ridiculous fixed characters, the masks of commedia dell’arte. We defend ourselves so desperately, but defend what? What is there to defend? She couldn’t stop seeing Judy’s brittle posture and tried to shake herself free; that woman was like the beginning of a fever. She didn’t want to feel for her, right now, but couldn’t stop herself imagining what Judy’s life must be like with Reverend Hewitt, which then made her think about her own father, Mrs. Barnacle’s husband, Haig, even Oliver. Truly, she wondered again, was there a single good man in the world? A single, good, feeling man in the world? Why was she herself so sensitive to people? Why did she find them so difficult? How was it that they got through to her so easily? Tonight she would lie awake, thinking of what Judy had said and the wounded crouch of her body. Of the relief of the children coming in, and of Annie’s beautiful face. Of Raj…Raj. Why had Raj walked out like that? All at once her scalp tightened and she shuddered; her sewing box was right beside her desk in the bedroom. Her notebook was open. She let out a little cry and pulled over, afraid she would lose control of the car: bastard, half-caste, little black greasy boy, nigger, parasite. She felt physically sick for a moment and opened the door. Then she realized she had to explain as soon as she could. Her heart lurched like the engine of her old Model A as she pulled back onto the road and headed home as quickly as she could.

Annie sat at the kitchen table with her mom, who was flicking absently through catalogs. Frank had raced her up to Jackson, and she now had twelve stitches in the bottom of her foot.

“She has no family?” her mom asked.

“There aren’t any pictures or anything in the house.”

Her mom clucked. “Shame.”

She was still in the white bathrobe and rabbit-fur mules she had been wearing this morning—and for the last four days now.

“Have you been out, Mom?”

“Out where?”

“Just out. You should visit Miss Winters.”

“Oh, she’s brain-box—too brainy for me.”

Annie realized that if her mom died like Mrs. Barnacle, she would know only that she had been born in Koscian and had spent her girlhood and teenage years in Chicago. She had one friend, Caroline, in Baxter, whom she visited every Thursday. Caroline had endless trouble with a husband who had a chronic illness and a mother-in-law who would fling herself down the stairs if she wasn’t given enough attention. The only things her mom ever talked about were Caroline’s latest woes and what looked good in the catalog.