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whispered, "If you want to be locked up today, keep on with what you're doing."

"Black . . hate black . . . gotta wipe out all dark black evil."

But he put the knife in his pocket after he carefully folded it and stroked the pearl handle he admired. He should. It had cost me seven bucks for that present.

Without waiting for a response to her impatient push on the doorchimes, Madame stalked into our house and tossed her purse on the loveseat in the foyer. The clack of typewriter keys came to us faintly.

"Writing," she said, "I guess she goes at that just as passionately as she did dancing . . ."

I didn't say anything, but I did want to run ahead and warn Mom. She wouldn't let me. Mom looked up very startled to suddenly encounter Madame Marisha again in her bedroom.

"Catherine! Why didn't you tell me Dr. Paul Sheffield was dead."

Momma's face went red, then white. She bowed her head and put her hands up to cover her face. Regaining her composure almost immediately, she raised her head, flashed angry eyes at Madame, then began to shuffle her papers into a neat pile. "How nice to see you, Madame Marisha. It would have been nicer if you had called in advance. However, I'm sure Emma can split the lamb chops unevenly and let you have two . . ."

"Don't evade my question with silly talk of eating. Do you think for one moment I would pollute my body with your stupid lamb chops? I eat health foods, and health foods only."

"Jory," said Mom, "in case Emma saw Madame, run tell her not to set another place."

"What is all this idiotic chatter about lamb chops? I drove here to ask an important question, and you talk about food. Catherine, answer my question-- is Paul Sheffield dead?"

Mom looked at me and gestured I was to disappear, but I couldn't. I stood my ground and defied her. She paled more and seemed appalled that I, her darling, would not obey. Then, as if resigned, she muttered in an indistinct way: "You never asked me about myself, about my husband, so I took it you weren't interested in anyone but Jory."

"Catherine!"

"Jory, please leave this room immediately. Or do I have to get up and shove you out?"

I backed out the door just before she reached to throw it shut.

Barely could I make out what she said on the other side of the door, but I pressed my ear against it and heard. "Madame, you don't know how much I have needed someone to confide in. But you were always so cold, so remote, I didn't think you could understand." Silence. A snort.

"Yes, Paul died, years ago. I try not to think of him as dead but as still alive, though invisible. We brought his marble statues and benches here and tried to make our garden grow like his. We failed. But still, when twilight comes and I'm out in the garden it seems I can sense him near, still loving me. We were married for such a short time. And he was never really well . . . so when he died, I was left feeling

unfulfilled, still yearning to give him the years of happy married life I owed him. I wanted somehow to make up for Julia, his first wife."

"Catherine," said Madame softly, "who is this man your children call Father?"

"Madame, what I do is none of your business." I could hear the anger building in Mom's voice. "This is not the same kind of world you grew up in. You have not lived my life, and been inside my mind. You have not known the kind of deprivations I suffered when I was young and needed love most. Don't you sit there and condemn me with your dark mean eyes, for you can't understand."

"Oh, Catherine, how little credit you give my intelligence. Do you think me dumb, blind and insensitive? I know now very well who the man is my grandson calls Dad. And it's no wonder you could never love my Julian enough. I used to think it was Paul, but now I see it wasn't Paul you truly loved; it wasn't that Bartholomew Winslow either--it was Christopher, your brother. I don't give a damn what you and your brother do. If you sleep in his bed and you find the happiness you feel was stolen from you long ago, I can rationalize and say that much worse goes on every day than brother and sister who pretend to be husband and wife. But I must protect my grandson. He comes first. You have no right to make your children pay the price for your unlawful relationship."

Oh!--What was she saying?

Mom, do something, say something, make me feel good again! Make me feel safe and real again-- make it all go away, this talk of your brother you've never mentioned.

I crouched down lower, bowing my head into my hands, not wanting to hear, not daring to leave.

Mom's voice came strained and very hoarse, as if she were having trouble keeping tears away. "I don't know how you found out. Please try to understand . . ."

"As I said before, I don't give a damn--and I think I do understand. You couldn't love my son, as you could never love any man more than you loved your brother. I'm bitter about that. I'm crying inside for Julian, who thought you an angel of perfection, his Catherine, his Clara, his sleeping beauty that he could never wake up. That's what you were to him, Catherine, the personification of all the dancing dolls of the ballet, virgin and pure, sweet and chaste, and in the end you are no better than the rest of us."

"Please!" cried Mom, "I tried to escape Chris. I tried to love Julian more. I did, I really did."

"No, you didn't try. If you had, you would have succeeded."

"You can't know!" came Mom's distressed cry.

"Catherine, you and I have traveled the same road for many a year, and you've let little bits and pieces of information drop along the way. And then there is Jory, who tries his best to shield you . . ."