hard, they sounded like they had exploded.
Periodically, that first day and night, she looked
in on me. Sometimes, she just appeared in the
doorway, glanced at me and moved on. Sometimes,
she asked if I wanted something to drink, had gone to
the bathroom, needed help in moving about, anything,
it seemed to keep her voice in the air like some kite
that looked like it was losing wind and would float
down if it wasn't jerked and pulled.
I requested very little. My curiosity about the
house, my initial desire to wheel myself through the
downstairs, gazing at the rooms and the furniture
dissipated like a balloon with a slow leak. I felt myself
fold up in bed, close my eyes, and with the television
running a stream of low noise and flickering shadows
on the walls. I'd fall in and out of sleep until the first
light of morning trickled through the curtains, parting
the darkness as if I was being unearthed and
discovered once again.
Who'd want to be discovered like this? I
thought. . . I was certainly no treasure.
Mrs. Bogart was there almost as soon as I
opened my eyes. I knew she had been installed
upstairs in one of the West bedrooms. What was she
doing, sleeping with her ear on the floor waiting for
my waking groans?
"Good morning."" she said barely looking at me
as she crossed the room to open the curtains wider.
She went into the bathroom and started to run my tub.
When she returned, she carried something green in a