waiting.”
Katherine felt unsteady on her feet. She felt blessed by thebreeze and by the young man below, who kept on standing and standing, half-crouched at the Chauncers’, while the pig pawed the dirt and wagged its head and looked for an out. He was the most patient creature Katherine had ever seen—the young man in his loose trousers. He was going to wait, and he would not threaten. He would win, in the end, and take that pig home.
It was as if, Katherine decided, the young man utterly understood the pig’s predicament—had put himself right in its place. As if he knew how the pig felt to be found after all the trouble the pig had done to get itself lost. “You get yourself together, now,” the young man was saying. “You don’t be afraid. Folks is missing you.” The whole transaction going on in profile and the pig out there with the long slash of a smile, not squealing and not quite so angry, not plowing trenches into the shade of the red camellia bush.
Now the pig looked up and squinted at the sun; it seemed to take notice. So that when the boy looked up, too, Katherine saw how his eyes were like pieces of dark green-brown glass, shining and absorbing shine at the same time. She wondered if he’d seen her, then wondered why she cared, then she put her hands into the tangle of her hair and stepped back, horrified, certain that she looked a fright. When she peered out again, the young man had the pig in the cradle of his arms. He was talking to it, telling it some kind of story. The pig’s hooves were kicking hard at first butsoon enough they had stopped their racketeering. Now its head stopped slapping side to side until it was squatting, like a fat cat, in the young man’s arms.
“Pleased to meet you,” Katherine heard him tell the pig. “My name is William.”
He straightened then, and left the Chauncer’s yard. He closed the gate behind him. He walked down Delancey with the pig in his arms, walked west and Katherine watched him, felt sorry that he had to go. Sorry that she couldn’t walk west with him. Out of the house. Out of her sickness. Out of the loneliness of not having Anna nearby.
The heat was back. Katherine closed the window against it.
It was a long time after that before Anna came home. Katherine had slept again; she had fumbled with
Moby-Dick
. She had collected herself and stood at the window. When she finally saw her sister, she was three blocks off—her body pitched forward in a hurry.
Anna was wearing a pewter-colored dress, no hat on her head. Her legs seemed loose and light beneath the layers of her skirt and she carried her elbows high so that she might keep aloft the thing she carried. Katherine had nearly sunk back into the white space of her bed by then, but in the end she’d turned at the window to face west instead of east. That’s when she saw her sister traipsing down the street. Too pale and light, too fragile, too happy. Too pleased withwhatever it was that she had collected in that hatbox, for that’s what it was—a hatbox. Katherine opened the window to let the day in. She heard the sound of a bird singing—a reckless aria.
The sun was at Anna’s back, the sky was her frame. When at last she looked up and saw Katherine standing in the third-floor window, she freed one hand and waved. “He’s singing for you,” she called out, and began running, her hem down near her feet. Her hands were tight about the box—that strange magenta hatbox that Anna had found one day at Dewees.
Don’t run
, Katherine almost called.
You’ll fall
. But she was mesmerized by the sight of Anna, by the question, Where had she gone without her?
There was a penny-toss game getting under way across the street—Marty Bell and his cousins. There was a milk cart trotting by, a tabby in the gutter swatting fleas, the smell of bleach coming from a neighbor’s basement. There was Jeannie Bea in the kitchen. Neither her mother nor father were home. Katherine had lost the
Katherine felt unsteady on her feet. She felt blessed by thebreeze and by the young man below, who kept on standing and standing, half-crouched at the Chauncers’, while the pig pawed the dirt and wagged its head and looked for an out. He was the most patient creature Katherine had ever seen—the young man in his loose trousers. He was going to wait, and he would not threaten. He would win, in the end, and take that pig home.
It was as if, Katherine decided, the young man utterly understood the pig’s predicament—had put himself right in its place. As if he knew how the pig felt to be found after all the trouble the pig had done to get itself lost. “You get yourself together, now,” the young man was saying. “You don’t be afraid. Folks is missing you.” The whole transaction going on in profile and the pig out there with the long slash of a smile, not squealing and not quite so angry, not plowing trenches into the shade of the red camellia bush.
Now the pig looked up and squinted at the sun; it seemed to take notice. So that when the boy looked up, too, Katherine saw how his eyes were like pieces of dark green-brown glass, shining and absorbing shine at the same time. She wondered if he’d seen her, then wondered why she cared, then she put her hands into the tangle of her hair and stepped back, horrified, certain that she looked a fright. When she peered out again, the young man had the pig in the cradle of his arms. He was talking to it, telling it some kind of story. The pig’s hooves were kicking hard at first butsoon enough they had stopped their racketeering. Now its head stopped slapping side to side until it was squatting, like a fat cat, in the young man’s arms.
“Pleased to meet you,” Katherine heard him tell the pig. “My name is William.”
He straightened then, and left the Chauncer’s yard. He closed the gate behind him. He walked down Delancey with the pig in his arms, walked west and Katherine watched him, felt sorry that he had to go. Sorry that she couldn’t walk west with him. Out of the house. Out of her sickness. Out of the loneliness of not having Anna nearby.
The heat was back. Katherine closed the window against it.
It was a long time after that before Anna came home. Katherine had slept again; she had fumbled with
Moby-Dick
. She had collected herself and stood at the window. When she finally saw her sister, she was three blocks off—her body pitched forward in a hurry.
Anna was wearing a pewter-colored dress, no hat on her head. Her legs seemed loose and light beneath the layers of her skirt and she carried her elbows high so that she might keep aloft the thing she carried. Katherine had nearly sunk back into the white space of her bed by then, but in the end she’d turned at the window to face west instead of east. That’s when she saw her sister traipsing down the street. Too pale and light, too fragile, too happy. Too pleased withwhatever it was that she had collected in that hatbox, for that’s what it was—a hatbox. Katherine opened the window to let the day in. She heard the sound of a bird singing—a reckless aria.
The sun was at Anna’s back, the sky was her frame. When at last she looked up and saw Katherine standing in the third-floor window, she freed one hand and waved. “He’s singing for you,” she called out, and began running, her hem down near her feet. Her hands were tight about the box—that strange magenta hatbox that Anna had found one day at Dewees.
Don’t run
, Katherine almost called.
You’ll fall
. But she was mesmerized by the sight of Anna, by the question, Where had she gone without her?
There was a penny-toss game getting under way across the street—Marty Bell and his cousins. There was a milk cart trotting by, a tabby in the gutter swatting fleas, the smell of bleach coming from a neighbor’s basement. There was Jeannie Bea in the kitchen. Neither her mother nor father were home. Katherine had lost the
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