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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