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The
skin
on
my
face
felt
as
hard
as
a
crab
’
s
back
I
closed
the
alley
door
slowly
as
you
’
d
close
a
vault
.
The
first
two
sheets
of
paper
I
folded
carefully
and
placed
in
my
wallet
,
and
the
other
—
I
crumpled
it
and
put
it
in
the
toilet
and
pulled
the
chain
.
It
’
s
a
high
box
toilet
with
a
kind
of
step
in
the
bowl
.
The
balled
paper
resisted
going
over
the
edge
,
but
finally
it
did
.
The
alley
door
was
a
little
open
when
I
emerged
from
the
cubicle
.
I
thought
I
had
closed
it
.
Going
toward
it
,
I
heard
a
small
sound
and
,
looking
up
,
I
saw
that
damn
cat
on
one
of
the
top
storage
shelves
hooking
out
with
its
claws
for
a
hanging
side
of
bacon
.
It
took
a
long
-
handled
broom
and
quite
a
chase
to
drive
it
out
into
the
alley
.
As
it
streaked
past
me
,
I
swiped
at
it
and
missed
and
broke
the
broom
handle
against
the
doorjamb
.
There
was
no
sermon
for
the
canned
goods
that
morning
.
I
couldn
’
t
raise
a
text
.
But
I
did
get
out
a
hose
to
wash
down
the
front
sidewalk
and
the
gutter
too
.
Afterward
I
cleaned
the
whole
store
,
even
corners
long
neglected
and
choked
with
flug
.
And
I
sang
too
:
"
Now
is
the
winter
of
our
discontent
Made
glorious
summer
by
this
sun
of
York
.
"
I
know
it
’
s
not
a
song
,
but
I
sang
it
.
New
Baytown
is
a
lovely
place
.
Its
harbor
,
once
a
great
one
,
is
sheltered
from
the
northeast
screamers
by
an
offshore
island
.
The
village
is
strewn
about
a
complex
of
inland
waters
fed
by
the
tides
,
which
at
ebb
and
flow
drive
wild
races
through
narrow
channels
from
the
harbor
and
the
sea
.
It
is
not
a
crowded
or
an
urban
town
.
Except
for
the
great
houses
of
the
long
-
gone
whalers
,
the
dwellings
are
small
and
neat
,
distributed
among
fine
old
trees
,
oaks
of
several
kinds
,
maples
and
elms
,
hickory
and
some
cypresses
,
but
except
for
the
old
planted
elms
on
the
original
streets
,
the
native
timber
is
largely
oak
.
Once
the
virgin
oaks
were
so
many
and
so
large
that
several
shipyards
drew
planks
and
knees
,
keels
and
keelsons
,
from
nearby
.
Communities
,
like
people
,
have
periods
of
health
and
times
of
sickness
—
even
youth
and
age
,
hope
and
despondency
.
There
was
a
time
when
a
few
towns
like
New
Baytown
furnished
the
whale
oil
that
lighted
the
Western
World
.
Student
lamps
of
Oxford
and
Cambridge
drew
fuel
from
this
American
outpost
.
And
then
petroleum
,
rock
oil
,
gushed
out
in
Pennsylvania
and
cheap
kerosene
,
called
coal
oil
,
took
the
place
of
whale
oil
and
retired
most
of
the
sea
hunters
.
Sickness
or
despair
fell
on
New
Baytown
—
perhaps
an
attitude
from
which
it
did
not
recover
.
Other
towns
not
too
far
away
grew
and
prospered
on
other
products
and
energies
,
but
New
Baytown
,
whose
whole
living
force
had
been
in
square
-
rigged
ships
and
whales
,
sank
into
torpor
.
The
snake
of
population
crawling
out
from
New
York
passed
New
Baytown
by
,
leaving
it
to
its
memories
.
And
,
as
usually
happens
,
New
Baytown
people
persuaded
themselves
that
they
liked
it
that
way
.
They
were
spared
the
noise
and
litter
of
summer
people
,
the
garish
glow
of
neon
signs
,
the
spending
of
tourist
money
and
tourist
razzle
-
dazzle
.
Only
a
few
new
houses
were
built
around
the
fine
inland
waters
.
But
the
snake
of
population
continued
to
writhe
out
and
everyone
knew
that
sooner
or
later
it
would
engulf
the
village
of
New
Baytown
.
The
local
people
longed
for
that
and
hated
the
idea
of
it
at
the
same
time
.
The
neighboring
towns
were
rich
,
spilled
over
with
loot
from
tourists
,
puffed
with
spoils
,
gleamed
with
the
great
houses
of
the
new
rich
.
Old
Baytown
spawned
art
and
ceramics
and
pansies
,
and
the
damn
broadfooted
brood
of
Lesbos
wove
handmade
fabrics
and
small
domestic
intrigues
.
New
Baytown
talked
of
the
old
days
and
of
flounder
and
when
the
weakfish
would
start
running
.
