"Look. Ask Brindle if you don't believe me," said Morgan.
"Brindle?" She considered. "Brindle," she said.
"Your daughter. My sister."
"She told me it was squirrels," Louisa said. "At night she asks, 'What's that skittering? What's that scuttling? Is it burglars?' I say, 'It's squirrels.' Now I say, 'Hear that burglar on the second floor?' She says, 'It's only squirrels, Mother. Didn't you always tell me that? They're hiding their acorns in the rafters in the attic.'"
"Oh? You have rodents?" Morgan asked.
"No, squirrels. Or something up there, snickering around…"
"You want to be careful," Morgan told her. "It could very well be bats. The last thing you need is a rabid bat. What you ought to do, you see, simply take a piece of screening-" His mother said, "Morgan?"
"Yes."
"Is that you?"
"Yes," he said.
"Oh, hello, dear," she said serenely. She let go of his wrist, and kissed him.
"It's good to see you, Mother," he said.
Then Bonny said, from the doorway, "Get out."
"Why, Bonny!" said Morgan.
"Out." She was carrying her sack from the bakery, and gave off the mingled smells of cinnamon and fresh air. Her eyes had darkened alarmingly. Yes, she meant business, all right. He knew the signs. He edged away from his mother. (But there was only one door, and Bonny blocked it.) "I was just leaving, Bonny," he said. "I only came to ask you something."
"I won't answer," she said. "Now go."
"Bonny-"
"Go, Morgan."
"Bonny, why'd you put that piece in the paper?"
"What piece?"
"That… item. What you call… obituary."
"Oh," she said. There was a sudden little twist to her mouth that he remembered well-a wry look, something between amusement and regret. "Oh, that" she said.
"What made you do it?" She thought it over.
His mother said, 'I'm certain it's not bats, because I hear their little feet."
"To tell the truth," Bonny said, "I'd forgotten all about it. Oh, dear. I really should have canceled it; I meant to all along; it was only one of those impulses that just hit sometimes-"
"I can't figure out how you knew where I lived," Morgan said.
"I called Leon in Richmond and asked," she said. "I guessed you'd tell Leon at least, because of Gina."
"But what was the point, Bonny? An obituary, for God's sake."
"Or do bats have feet too?" said his mother.
"It was meant to be an announcement," Bonny said.
"What kind of announcement?" She colored slightly. She touched the dent at the base of her throat. "Well, I'm seeing someone else now," she said. "Another man."
"Ah," he said.
"A history professor."
"That explains printing my obituary?"
"Yes." Well, yes.
He took pity on her then-her pink cheeks, and the clumsy, prideful, downward look she wore. "All right," he said. "That's all I had to ask. I'll be going now." She drew back to let him pass. Already she'd collected herself-lifted and straightened. He stepped into the hall. Then he said, "But, ah, God, Bonny, you don't know how it felt! Really, such an… embarrassment, an item like that in a public place, all on account of some whim you get, some halfcocked notion!" The twist in her mouth returned, and deepened. No doubt she found this hilarious.
"It's probably not even legal," he said.
He started coughing. He searched his pockets for his handkerchief.
"Do you want a Kleenex?" she asked. "What's the matter with you, Morgan? You don't look well."
"I could probably have you arrested," he told her. He found his handkerchief and pressed it to his mouth.
"Let's not talk about what we could arrest each other for," Bonny said.
So he went down the stairs at last, not even saying goodbye to his mother or giving her a final glance. Bonny followed. He heard the rustle of her bakery sack close behind his ear-an irritating sound. An irritating woman. And this banister was sticky to the touch, downright dirty. And you could break your neck on the rug in the entrance hall.
At the door, when his thoughts were flowing toward the pickup truck (get gas, check tires) and the journey home, Bonny suddenly seemed to have all the time in the world. She brushed a piece of hair off her forehead and said, "His name is Arthur Amherst."
"Eh?"
"This man I'm seeing. Arthur Amherst."
"Good, Bonny, good."
"He's very steady and solid."
"I'm glad to hear it;" he said, jingling his keys in his pocket.
"You think that means he's dull, I suppose."
"I know it doesn't mean that," he said.
He pulled out his keys then, and turned to leave, hut was struck by something and turned back. "Listen," he said. "Those really may be bats, you know."
"What?"
"Those creatures Mother's hearing in the attic."
"Oh, well, they're not harming anybody."
"How can you be sure of that? You ought to do something about it. Don't put it off; they could chew through the wiring."
"Bats?" she asked.
"Or whatever," he said.
He hesitated, and then touched his cap hi a salute and left.
Now there was church traffic, old men hi felt hats driving carloads of tinkly old ladies, sidewalks ringing with the clop of high heels. He traveled downtown in a suspended state of mind, shaking off the annoyances of the morning. He traveled farther and farther, not out of the city but deeper into it. It wouldn't hurt to take a look at Cullen Hardware. There was always the possibility that Butkins would be there, even on a Sunday, maybe sorting stock or just standing idly, dimly, at the window as he sometimes did.
But the hardware store was gone. There was only a blank space between the rug store and Jimaldi Brothers Realty-not even a hole, just a vacant lot. Weeds grew on it, even. The wastepaper crumpled in its hillocks had already begun to yellow and dissolve. A billboard on the rear of the lot read: AT THIS LOCATION, NIFF DEVELOPMENT CORP. WILL BE CONSTRUCTING A…
He considered a minute, settled his glasses higher on his nose, and drove on. But what about Butkins? Where was Butkins? He turned left. He cut over to Crosswell Street. Crafts Unlimited was still there, closed for Sunday but thriving, obviously. The ranks of pottery jars in its window gave it an archeological look. The third-floor windows above it were as dark and plain as ever. He half believed that if he were to climb the stairs, he'd find Emily and Leon Meredith still leading their pure, vagabond lives, like two children in a fairytale.
"I'm certain I can fit into it," the second stepsister said. "It's only that I've been shopping all day and my feet are a little swollen."
"Madam, Please," the Prince said in his exhausted voice.
"Well, maybe I could cut off my toes."
"What about you, young lady?" asked the Prince. He was looking at Cinderella, who peeked out from the rear of the stage. Dressed in burlap, shy and fragile, she inched forward and approached the Prince. He knelt at her feet with the little glass slipper, or it may have been a shimmer of cellophane. All at once her burlap dress was mysteriously cloaked hi a billow of icy blue satin. "Sweetheart," the Prince cried, and the children drew their breaths in. They were young enough still.
Their expressions were dazzled and blissful, and even after the house lights came on they continued sitting in their chairs and gazing at the stage, open-mouthed.
It was at the Emancipation Baptist Church's Building Fund Weekend. There'd been two puppet shows on Saturday, and this evening's was the last one. Then Morgan and Emily could pack up their props and leave the church's Sunday School hall, which had the biting, minty smell of kindergarten paste. They could say goodbye, at least temporarily, to the Glass Accordion and the Six Singing Sunonsons and Boffo the Magician. Emily set the puppets one by one in their liquor carton. Joshua staggered down the aisle with one of Boffo's great brass rings. Morgan folded the wooden stage, lifted it onto his shoulder with a grunt, and carried it out the side entrance, It was a pale, misty night. The sidewalk gleamed under the streetlights. Morgan loaded the stage into the back of the pickup and slammed the door shut. Then he stood looking around him, breathing in the soft, damp air. A family passed-cranky children, kept awake past their bedtime, wheedling at their mother's edges. A boy and girl were kissing near a bus stop. On the corner was a mailbox, which reminded Morgan of his letter to Bonny. He'd carried it with him all evening; he might as well get it sent off. He took it from the pocket of his Air Force jacket and started across the street… simply strew a handful of mothballs, the letter whispered, a. along the attic floor beams; b. in the closets beneath the eaves…