I sat wondering, could I ever help make things up to this old woman by—at least—making things up?

Whenever authorities caught the impenitent runaway, Aunt never seemed headed for Oak Park. The bungalow at 1200 Home Avenue was long since sold. Authorities always found her aiming for the lake. Maybe some memory of ocean? safety? true escape?

Now she interrupted my renewed saga of several good Carolina families who’d wisely added my oil paintings to their collections. “They hurt, they hurt me. They listen, too.” She nodded toward the air-duct’s grillwork, shreds of dust shuddering there. It did look sinister. I took her small rough hand. Turning it over, I found the bruises. Old ones fading greenish under newer navy-blue.

“You see now? My, but your face certainly just changed, it did. Well, good. Son, nobody ever listens to me anymore. The Presbyterians, I find after a lifetime’s loyalty and tithing, turn out to be secretly ‘in with’ the Pope. I see that now. Rome knows you’re here. Everything we say, they keep it all in Gregg dictation. Once you’re gone, they’ll take it out on me. You could sleep in the chair. They won’t try any further funny business with you in here. Please tell your mother, won’t you? Oh, how they treat me. If you have spirit in this place, they monitor that. They’ll monitor whatever little spirit the person has left in her, His Honor His Owl. Remember everything, son. How pretty you really are. There’s no telling what trouble it’ll get you into, being the kind of boy that looks like that. Where are the dogs? I’ve often thought a dog would help in here. It could go for things. Papa’s did. You look like Papa in a portrait he had taken at your age. Such a voice did he have, the arias of an evening. I played well then. Even Mr. Ruskin was not uncomplimentary. They sold the piano. And the stool. For nothing. A song they got. I’d like a dog, would be nice. The director complains about it when I must go off places on my own. But I have been independent right along.—They take you down in shorthand. Then they use it on you, they send that, duplicate and triplicate, to Rome.—I can only go on like this, I think, because I HAVE gone on like this.”

Then she laughed that wild spoilt-rich-girl laugh, she nodded once, placed her long forefinger vertical against her lips: “Shhh, His Honor.” Aunt signed above the bed toward the humming heating vent. Next, midair, with one crabbed hand, she made a puppet gesture of human legs sneaking away, big slow comic tiptoe steps. Such a hoarse, aristocratic, likable whisper against my face: “I plan leaving again Tuesday, noon. They’ll never find me this time.—Besides, Owl, tell me, what’re they going to DO to me now? What’s there left to DO to your wild Muriel?”