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As
always
it
put
its
power
on
me
as
I
traced
its
design
with
my
finger
.
At
midday
it
was
the
pink
of
a
rose
,
but
in
the
evening
it
picked
up
a
darker
tone
,
a
purplish
blush
as
though
a
little
blood
had
got
in
it
.
It
wasn
’
t
thought
I
needed
but
rearrangement
,
change
of
design
,
as
though
I
were
in
a
garden
from
which
the
house
had
been
moved
in
the
night
.
Some
kind
of
makeshift
had
to
be
set
up
to
shelter
me
until
I
could
rebuild
.
I
had
retired
into
busyness
until
I
could
let
new
things
enter
slowly
and
count
and
identify
them
as
they
came
.
The
shelves
,
all
day
assaulted
,
showed
many
gaps
where
their
defenses
had
been
breeched
by
the
hungry
horde
,
a
snaggle
-
toothed
effect
,
a
walled
town
after
artillery
fire
.
"
Let
us
pray
for
our
departed
friends
,
"
I
said
.
"
The
thin
red
line
of
catsup
,
the
gallant
pickles
and
condiments
down
to
the
small
bald
capers
of
vinegar
.
We
cannot
dedicate
,
we
cannot
consecrate
—
no
not
that
.
It
is
rather
to
us
the
living
—
no
not
that
.
Alfio
—
I
wish
you
luck
and
surcease
from
pain
.
You
are
wrong
,
of
course
,
but
wrongness
can
be
a
poultice
to
you
.
You
made
a
sacrifice
for
having
been
a
sacrifice
.
"
People
passing
in
the
street
flickered
the
light
inside
the
store
.
I
dug
back
in
the
debris
of
the
day
for
Walder
’
s
words
and
for
his
face
when
he
said
them
:
"
A
do
-
it
-
yourself
police
court
.
You
have
to
pay
for
a
violation
.
You
’
re
his
down
payment
,
kind
of
,
so
the
light
won
’
t
go
out
.
"
That
’
s
what
the
man
said
.
Walder
in
his
safe
world
of
crooks
shaken
by
one
gleaming
shaft
of
honesty
.
So
the
light
won
’
t
go
out
.
Did
Alfio
say
it
that
way
?
Walder
didn
’
t
know
,
but
he
did
know
that
’
s
what
Marullo
meant
.
I
traced
the
serpent
on
the
talisman
and
came
back
to
the
beginning
,
which
was
the
end
.
That
was
an
old
light
—
Marulli
three
thousand
years
ago
found
their
way
through
the
lupariae
to
the
Lupercal
on
the
Palatine
to
offer
a
votive
to
Lycean
Pan
,
protector
of
the
flocks
from
wolves
.
And
that
light
had
not
gone
out
.
Marullo
,
the
dago
,
the
wop
,
the
guinea
,
sacrificed
to
the
same
god
for
the
same
reason
.
I
saw
him
again
raise
his
head
out
of
the
welter
of
fat
neck
and
aching
shoulders
,
I
saw
the
noble
head
,
the
hot
eyes
—
and
the
light
.
I
wondered
what
my
payment
would
be
and
when
demanded
.
If
I
took
my
talisman
down
to
the
Old
Harbor
and
threw
it
in
the
sea
—
would
that
be
acceptable
?
I
did
not
draw
the
shades
.
On
long
holidays
we
left
them
up
so
the
cops
could
look
in
.
The
storeroom
was
dark
.
I
locked
the
alley
door
and
was
halfway
across
the
street
when
I
remembered
the
hatbox
behind
the
counter
.
I
did
not
go
back
for
it
.
It
would
be
a
kind
of
question
asked
The
wind
was
rising
that
Saturday
evening
,
blowing
shrill
and
eagerly
from
the
southeast
as
it
must
to
bring
the
rain
to
soak
the
vacationers
.
I
thought
to
put
out
the
milk
for
that
gray
cat
on
Tuesday
and
invite
it
in
to
be
a
guest
in
my
store
.
I
don
’
t
know
for
sure
how
other
people
are
inside
—
all
different
and
all
alike
at
the
same
time
.
I
can
only
guess
.
But
I
do
know
how
I
will
squirm
and
wriggle
to
avoid
a
hurtful
truth
and
,
when
finally
there
is
no
choice
,
will
put
it
off
,
hoping
it
will
go
away
.
Do
other
people
say
primly
,
"
I
’
ll
think
about
that
tomorrow
when
I
am
rested
,
"
and
then
draw
on
a
hoped
-
for
future
or
an
edited
past
like
a
child
playing
with
violence
against
the
inevitability
of
bedtime
?
My
dawdled
steps
toward
home
led
through
a
minefield
of
the
truth
.
The
future
was
sowed
with
fertile
dragon
’
s
teeth
.
It
was
not
unnatural
to
run
for
a
safe
anchorage
in
the
past
.
But
on
that
course
,
set
square
across
it
was
Aunt
Deborah
,
a
great
wing
shot
on
a
covey
of
lies
,
her
eyes
gleaming
question
marks
.
