signal of danger. Unlike the mother of Sally’s boy.
Sally’s little boy.
She unbuttoned the collar of the nightie Georgie had dressed her in, squeezed the nipple of her left breast, and squirted
a syrupy milk — the milk for her own boy, whose name she didn’t even know.
A year ago she’d been a fifteen-year-old girl earning three pounds of sausages a week. Now she was a mother with swollen breasts
who didn’t know her own son’s name. And that was as good a reason as any for telling a lie. She’d never let herself need anyone.
If she was an angel, she was the fiercest kind, wielding a fiery sword in revenge, in destruction, in righteous fury.
Crash. Grrrr. You spy, you are my enemy. I will slay you with my magic sword. Slice, slice. Roar.
“Hey, kiddo,” Georgie called in a plain voice, the voice of easy routine, from the kitchen. “Lunch is ready.”
Sally let the pillow absorb her sobs. Raging, wretched Sally.
One thing Sally Werner would say about herself was that she didn’t like to be idle. As a young girl she’d usually been the
first one up in the house. She loved tiptoeing around in the winter darkness of the downstairs rooms, looking for treasure,
pretending to be a princess aprowl in a castle. She learned to light the stove when she was just short of seven years old,
and by the time she was ten she could cook a nice fried egg. When she went to work for the Jensons, she made herself valuable
by doing more than she was asked. And back at home, she’d kept herself busy with chores that the rest of the family preferred
to put off.
She woke later than her usual time after the second night at Georgie’s house. Lying in bed, she took a long look around the
room. The morning sunlight brightened the blinds and turned the unpainted walls golden. The three shelves of an old bookcase
were empty. Next to the bed was a freestanding lamp without a shade. There was no bureau, but a single open drawer set on
the floor held towels and sheets. She noticed that plaster chips had fallen into the drawer, and she looked up to see the
big cracks in the ceiling and a hole around an empty light socket. It might have looked like work was being done on the room,
but there was a thick dusty feel to it, and Sally figured that it was a room no one had bothered with for years.
She was wearing a baggy old cotton nightie sized for a fat woman. She wanted to change into clothes, but not into her own
clothes. Putting on her own dingy dress would have been like going backward in time, and she didn’t want to do that. Anyway,
her dress wasn’t even there in the room.
The rest of the house was so silent that Sally wondered if she’d been left alone. She got up out of bed and went to investigate.
Across the narrow hall was a closet with a toilet and sink. She stopped there first, used the toilet, washed her face as best
she could, and retied her hair in a ponytail. Then she headed down the hall that led to the kitchen.
Georgie was at the stove, stirring something that didn’t smell like anything Sally recognized. The man seated at the kitchen
table was facing the entranceway where Sally stood, and he let out a low chuckle at the sight of her.
“There she is, the she-demon.”
It was Swill. Swill of the pigsty. Ugly old Swill, capless now, the grizzle on his head and face thick and short and white,
like a coating of paste. She was embarrassed to see him, or, rather, to be seen by him. But she also resented him for announcing
her arrival as though she couldn’t hear.
“You look like you’re feeling better,” said Georgie, turning, holding a spoon that dripped a thick, brown porridge onto the
floor. “Are you feeling better?”
She was, yes, thanks, she said, and added that she didn’t know what she would have done without, without… Unsure who to thank,
she just let her voice trail off.
Georgie didn’t notice the porridge on the floor. Neither did Swill, who rose from
Sally’s little boy.
She unbuttoned the collar of the nightie Georgie had dressed her in, squeezed the nipple of her left breast, and squirted
a syrupy milk — the milk for her own boy, whose name she didn’t even know.
A year ago she’d been a fifteen-year-old girl earning three pounds of sausages a week. Now she was a mother with swollen breasts
who didn’t know her own son’s name. And that was as good a reason as any for telling a lie. She’d never let herself need anyone.
If she was an angel, she was the fiercest kind, wielding a fiery sword in revenge, in destruction, in righteous fury.
Crash. Grrrr. You spy, you are my enemy. I will slay you with my magic sword. Slice, slice. Roar.
“Hey, kiddo,” Georgie called in a plain voice, the voice of easy routine, from the kitchen. “Lunch is ready.”
Sally let the pillow absorb her sobs. Raging, wretched Sally.
One thing Sally Werner would say about herself was that she didn’t like to be idle. As a young girl she’d usually been the
first one up in the house. She loved tiptoeing around in the winter darkness of the downstairs rooms, looking for treasure,
pretending to be a princess aprowl in a castle. She learned to light the stove when she was just short of seven years old,
and by the time she was ten she could cook a nice fried egg. When she went to work for the Jensons, she made herself valuable
by doing more than she was asked. And back at home, she’d kept herself busy with chores that the rest of the family preferred
to put off.
She woke later than her usual time after the second night at Georgie’s house. Lying in bed, she took a long look around the
room. The morning sunlight brightened the blinds and turned the unpainted walls golden. The three shelves of an old bookcase
were empty. Next to the bed was a freestanding lamp without a shade. There was no bureau, but a single open drawer set on
the floor held towels and sheets. She noticed that plaster chips had fallen into the drawer, and she looked up to see the
big cracks in the ceiling and a hole around an empty light socket. It might have looked like work was being done on the room,
but there was a thick dusty feel to it, and Sally figured that it was a room no one had bothered with for years.
She was wearing a baggy old cotton nightie sized for a fat woman. She wanted to change into clothes, but not into her own
clothes. Putting on her own dingy dress would have been like going backward in time, and she didn’t want to do that. Anyway,
her dress wasn’t even there in the room.
The rest of the house was so silent that Sally wondered if she’d been left alone. She got up out of bed and went to investigate.
Across the narrow hall was a closet with a toilet and sink. She stopped there first, used the toilet, washed her face as best
she could, and retied her hair in a ponytail. Then she headed down the hall that led to the kitchen.
Georgie was at the stove, stirring something that didn’t smell like anything Sally recognized. The man seated at the kitchen
table was facing the entranceway where Sally stood, and he let out a low chuckle at the sight of her.
“There she is, the she-demon.”
It was Swill. Swill of the pigsty. Ugly old Swill, capless now, the grizzle on his head and face thick and short and white,
like a coating of paste. She was embarrassed to see him, or, rather, to be seen by him. But she also resented him for announcing
her arrival as though she couldn’t hear.
“You look like you’re feeling better,” said Georgie, turning, holding a spoon that dripped a thick, brown porridge onto the
floor. “Are you feeling better?”
She was, yes, thanks, she said, and added that she didn’t know what she would have done without, without… Unsure who to thank,
she just let her voice trail off.
Georgie didn’t notice the porridge on the floor. Neither did Swill, who rose from
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