The Lighters lived in a loft. Annie and Walter found the door ajar. There were smells of glue and straw. Jersey Lighter was sitting on a stool, looking thoughtfully at a wire figurine he was holding.

“Merry, Merry Christmas!” shouted Walter.

Jersey looked up. “Hello, Walter. There’s some wine over there on the shelf. Elmira will be back soon.”

“Here’s Annie, my little Annie!” cried Walter, pushing her forward toward the man.

Jersey removed his eyeglasses. He had a small quiet face; his smile, only a slight widening of his narrow mouth. “Hello, Annie,” he said. “See this object? It’s going to be draped in silk in the display window of a swanky department store. Walter, we’ve hit. Elmira’s gotten orders from most of the big stores. I’m going to have to hire people.”

“Capitalist!”

“I hope so,” said Jersey mildly.

“Where’s Elmira?” Walter’s voice had become subdued; he was watching Jersey’s thin fingers manipulate the figurine. It was cold in the loft—there was an atmosphere of sobriety.

“There’s a party down the block to raise money for the Spanish refugees,” Jersey replied. “Elmira is the chief exhibit. I painted a roulette board on her belly. People put quarters on the numbers. If the baby kicks their quarter off, they win a copy of The Underground Stream.”

He looked up at Walter. “What did you mean? Calling me a capitalist with that Vogel sneer? Listen, Vogel, we’re naming the baby Franklin Delano, boy or girl.”

“When’s it due?”

“Next month. We’re going to have to do something about the climate in this place. It’s too cold for a baby. Or maybe we’ll call it Popular Front—Poppy for short.”

“You sound bitter, Comrade,” said Walter.

“I’m tired,” Jersey replied. “There’s going to be a terrible war. I don’t understand it…I don’t understand the party. I just want to be let alone.”

Annie wandered around the big room. On long wooden tables rested gluepots and paints, scraps of cloth, armatures, tools, excelsior. She felt that Walter’s changed mood—the men were talking quietly in the corner—had released her to herself. She stood half dreaming over a drawing table. It was like the best of times, when her father had been really working. Work had a smell of its own; sharp, clean, vigorous.

Elmira soon returned and heated up a pot of spaghetti for them. She was a small, energetic woman, ducklike in her pregnancy. She spoke with a barely restrained lisp in a shrill animated voice. But with all her animation, in the midst of her chatter with Walter, she kept an eye on Annie with a certain calculation. Annie thought, she’s acting. Jersey beckoned to her. Annie walked over to him, leaving Elmira and Walter at the table. She was queasy after so much food.

“I don’t usually eat so much,” she confided to him shyly.

“It’s too bad we can’t store up food like camels, for the lean days,” he said. “You want some bicarb?”

“It’s not that bad.”