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her calves with garters.
    He realized he must have been staring because she lifted her legs and held them straight out in front of her. “Poor circulation,” she said. “My feet get so cold! This here’s something I read about in a magazine. You coat your feet all over with Vaseline, and then you put them in plastic bags to trap the heat. Then you put socks on over that. I got on three pairs. And then you wear rubber boots on top of those.” Her thick eyebrows drew together as she smiled broadly.
    Perry couldn’t think of a reply at first. He watched her silently for a moment on the outside chance that she was teasing. “Does it work?” he finally asked.
    â€œPretty much,” she answered.
    Perry wondered how she cleaned the Vaseline off her feet afterward. Maybe she just left it on and layered over it every day. What would that look like by springtime? He looked away quickly.
    A thin, gangly boy walked partway into the room and stood at the other end of the sofa looking embarrassed. His whole face was spattered with reddish-brown freckles, as if he had leaned over a hot skillet of grease. His jeans were neatly rolled up several turns, and his flannel plaid shirt was tucked tightly inside and buttoned up snug to the neck.
    â€œThis here’s Joe Leonard,” said the old woman, smiling at the boy proudly. “He’s fourteen and is learning to play the tuba.”
    No wonder he looks embarrassed, thought Perry. Joe Leonard came forward awkwardly and extended his hand. Perry was surprised at the firmness of his grasp. But he supposed that hauling a tuba around would have to develop finger strength. As they shook hands, Joe Leonard gave a lopsided grin and studied the carpet—olive shag, Perry had already noted. Perry relaxed somewhat as he always did when he saw someone who looked even more uncomfortable than himself. “What grade are you in, Joe Leonard?” he asked.
    â€œNinth,” the old woman said.
    â€œYou like sports?” Perry asked.
    â€œHe’s too spindly for football,” the old woman said. “For which I’m grateful, since he doesn’t have any business playing that anyway. Nobody does unless they’re bent on killing theirself.”
    â€œI like basketball,” Joe Leonard said. His eyes met Perry’s briefly.
    â€œAnd tennis, too,” the old woman added. “He and his mother play together some. She can usually win, but he’s improving, she says. I used to play myself when I was younger.”
    An image filled Perry’s mind of the old woman serving an ace in her black rubber boots. He narrowed his eyes and stared hard at his knees.
    No one spoke for a few moments. Perry glanced quickly around the living room, which had the look of an overcrowded souvenir shop. Everything was in its place, but there was so much of it that the first impression was one of clutter. There was a long shelf mounted on the wall above the gas heater, which held a collection of ceramic owls. Perry tried to imagine how hot they must be.
    He wondered what made it so bright in the room. Did they use special lightbulbs? Or maybe it was just the contrast from Beth’s plain, dull little house next door. He wished he could have borrowed some of this brightness last night when he had arrived and found the electricity off. Beth must have anticipated it, for there were assorted candle stubs laid out on the kitchen table, along with a book of matches and a note in Beth’s bold script: “Electricity comes on Sat., the 18th. Use candles in a pinch. Extra blankets in hall closet.” Leave it to Beth to cut it that close. But then how was she to know he would decide to leave Rockford a day earlier than he had said? He had lit all the candles and set them in the living room on saucers, then carried in his boxes and piled them in front of the bookcase. Then he had blown out the candles and slept in his clothes on the sofa. Welcome.