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If
you
use
our
stairs
near
the
edge
on
the
side
of
the
wall
,
they
do
not
creak
.
I
discovered
that
as
a
tomcatting
boy
coming
home
from
the
back
fences
of
the
town
.
I
still
use
the
knowledge
if
I
do
not
want
to
disturb
Mary
.
I
used
it
now
—
moved
silently
down
the
staircase
,
trailing
my
fingers
against
the
wall
for
guidance
.
A
dim
and
lacy
sublight
penetrated
from
the
street
-
lamp
side
and
dissipated
to
semidarkness
away
from
the
window
.
But
I
could
see
Ellen
.
She
seemed
to
have
a
glow
,
perhaps
her
white
nightgown
.
Her
face
was
shadowed
but
her
arms
and
hands
picked
up
light
.
She
was
standing
at
the
glass
-
fronted
cabinet
where
the
worthless
family
treasures
are
kept
,
the
carved
scrimshaw
,
the
sperm
whales
and
boats
complete
with
oars
and
irons
and
crews
,
harpooner
in
the
bow
—
all
carved
from
whales
’
bone
—
like
teeth
and
the
curved
tusks
of
walrus
;
a
small
model
of
the
Belle
-
Adair
,
shiny
with
varnish
,
her
furled
sails
and
cordage
brown
and
dusty
.
There
were
bits
of
the
chinoiserie
the
old
captains
brought
from
the
Orient
after
they
had
stripped
the
China
area
of
sperm
whales
,
bits
and
pieces
,
ebony
and
ivory
,
laughing
and
serious
gods
,
Buddhas
,
serene
and
dirty
,
carved
flowers
in
rose
quartz
and
soapstone
and
some
jade
—
yes
,
some
good
jade
—
and
thin
cups
,
translucent
and
lovely
.
Some
of
the
things
might
be
valuable
—
like
the
small
shapeless
horses
which
yet
had
life
—
but
if
they
were
valuable
it
was
an
accident
,
must
have
been
.
How
would
those
sailing
,
whale
-
killing
men
know
good
from
bad
—
or
would
they
?
Or
did
they
?
The
cabinet
had
always
been
the
holy
place
of
the
parenti
to
me
—
Roman
masks
of
the
ancestors
,
or
the
lares
and
penates
back
to
a
stone
fallen
from
the
moon
.
We
even
had
a
mandrake
root
—
a
perfect
little
man
,
sprouted
from
the
death
-
ejected
sperm
of
a
hanged
man
,
and
also
we
had
a
veritable
mermaid
,
pretty
ratty
by
now
,
but
cleverly
made
by
sewing
the
front
end
of
a
monkey
and
the
after
end
of
a
fish
together
.
It
had
shrunk
with
the
years
and
the
stitches
showed
,
but
its
little
teeth
still
showed
in
a
ferocious
smile
.
I
presume
that
every
family
has
a
magic
thing
,
a
continuity
thing
that
inflames
and
comforts
and
inspires
from
generation
to
generation
.
Ours
was
a
—
how
shall
I
say
?
—
a
kind
of
mound
of
translucent
stone
,
perhaps
quartz
or
jadeite
or
even
soapstone
.
It
was
circular
,
four
inches
in
diameter
and
an
inch
and
a
half
at
its
rounded
peak
.
And
carved
on
its
surface
was
an
endless
interweaving
shape
that
seemed
to
move
and
yet
went
no
place
.
It
was
living
but
had
no
head
or
tail
,
nor
beginning
or
end
.
The
polished
stone
was
not
slick
to
the
touch
but
slightly
tacky
like
flesh
,
and
it
was
always
warm
to
the
touch
.
You
could
see
into
it
and
yet
not
through
it
.
I
guess
some
old
seaman
of
my
blood
had
brought
it
back
from
China
.
It
was
magic
—
good
to
see
,
to
touch
,
to
rub
against
your
cheek
or
to
caress
with
your
fingers
.
This
strange
and
magic
mound
lived
in
the
glass
cabinet
.
As
child
and
boy
and
man
I
was
allowed
to
touch
it
,
to
handle
it
,
but
never
to
carry
it
away
.
And
its
color
and
convolutions
and
texture
changed
as
my
needs
changed
.
Once
I
supposed
it
was
a
breast
,
to
me
as
a
boy
it
became
yoni
,
inflamed
and
aching
.
Perhaps
later
it
evolved
to
brain
or
even
enigma
,
the
headless
,
endless
,
moving
thing
—
the
question
which
is
whole
within
itself
,
needing
no
answer
to
destroy
it
,
no
beginning
or
end
to
limit
it
.
The
glass
case
had
a
brass
lock
from
colonial
times
and
a
square
brass
key
,
always
in
the
lock
.
My
sleeping
daughter
had
the
magic
mound
in
her
hands
,
caressing
it
with
her
fingers
,
petting
it
as
though
it
were
alive
.
She
pressed
it
against
her
unformed
breast
,
placed
it
on
her
cheek
below
her
ear
,
nuzzled
it
like
a
suckling
puppy
,
and
she
hummed
a
low
song
like
a
moan
of
pleasure
and
of
longing
.
There
was
destruction
in
her
.
I
had
been
afraid
at
first
that
she
might
want
to
crash
it
to
bits
or
hide
it
away
,
but
now
I
saw
that
it
was
mother
,
lover
,
child
,
in
her
hands
.
I
wondered
how
I
might
awaken
her
without
fright
.
But
why
are
sleepwalkers
awakened
?
Is
it
for
fear
that
they
may
hurt
themselves
?
I
’
ve
never
heard
of
injury
in
this
state
,
except
through
awakening
.
Why
should
I
interfere
?
This
was
no
nightmare
full
of
pain
or
fear
but
rather
pleasure
and
association
beyond
waking
understanding
.
What
call
had
I
to
spoil
it
?
I
moved
quietly
back
and
sat
down
in
my
big
chair
to
wait
.
The
dim
room
seemed
swarming
with
particles
of
brilliant
light
moving
and
whirling
like
clouds
of
gnats
.
I
guess
they
were
not
really
there
but
only
prickles
of
weariness
swimming
in
the
fluid
of
my
eyes
,
but
they
were
very
convincing
.
And
it
did
seem
true
that
a
glow
came
from
my
daughter
Ellen
,
not
only
from
the
white
of
her
gown
but
from
her
skin
as
well
.
I
could
see
her
face
and
I
should
not
have
been
able
to
in
the
darkened
room
.
It
seemed
to
me
that
it
was
not
a
little
girl
’
s
face
at
all
—
nor
was
it
old
,
but
it
was
mature
and
complete
and
formed
.
Her
lips
closed
firmly
,
which
they
did
not
normally
do
.
