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"Yes. Thank you, Grandmother." He turned to me. "Did you enjoy the food?"

"It was delicious."

"It should be. I have the finest cook in Baton Rouge," Mrs. Clairborne said.

"Would you like to hear me play the piano?" Louis asked.

"I'd love to."

"Good. May we be excused now,

Grandmother?"

"I have instructed the school driver to be ready to pick her up at nine sharp. The Greenwood girls have their homework and their curfew."

"I've done all my homework," I said quickly.

"Still, you should be returned early to your dorm," Mrs. Clairborne insisted.

"What time is it now, Grandmother?" Louis asked. "What time is it?" he demanded. I held my breath. Would she say, two-oh-five?

"Otis, what is the time?" she asked the butler standing in the doorway.

"It's seven-forty, madame."

"Oh then, we have plenty of time," Louis said. "Shall we go to the music studio." He stood up. I looked at Mrs. Clairborne, who appeared very unhappy, and then stood up too.

"Thank you for a wonderful dinner, Mrs. Clairborne." Her thin lips moved into a grotesque mockery of a smile. "Yes, you're very welcome," she said quickly.

Louis held up his arm, and I walked around the table and threaded mine through his.

"Wearing Grandmother's favorite scent, I see," he said, smiling. "Someone prompted you, huh?"

"Mrs. Penny, our housemother," I confessed. He laughed and led me out of the dining room and to his study. He did move through the house as confidently as one who could see, and when we arrived at the study, he went directly to his piano without the slightest hesitation.

"Sit beside me," he suggested, making room on the stool. After I did so, he began to play something soft and sweet. The melody seemed to flow out of his fingers and then into the piano. His torso swayed gently, his shoulder grazing mine. I watched his face as he played and saw the tiny movements in his lips and eyelids. When the piece came to an end, he kept his fingers on the keys as if the music still continued to flow from him.

"That was beautiful," I said softly.

"My piano teacher . . ordinarily a stuffed shirt . . . believes my blindness makes my playing sharper. He sounds almost envious at times. He confessed to me that he has taken to blindfolding himself when he is alone and plays. Can you imagine?'

"Yes," I said.

With his fingers still on the keys, his body postured for him to play another piece, he continued to speak instead. "I've never had a girl. . a young woman. . beside me before," he confessed. "I've never been this close."

"Why not?"

He laughed. "Why not?" His smile faded. "I don't know. I've been afraid, I suppose."

"Afraid?"

"Of being at a great disadvantage. For Grandmother's sake, more than my own, I pretend I'm all right. Of course, she doesn't see me groping about. I make sure of that. She doesn't hear my moans. I can't remember the last time she's seen

me cry. We do a lot of pretending here. I'm sure you've noticed. We pretend everything's all right. We pretend nothing's happened.

"But I'm tired of pretending," he said, turning around. "I want . . some reality too. Is that wrong?"

"Oh no."