The musician. She had unaccountable gleams of sympathy with and liking for him. Joe, my foster dad, was a heroin and booze addict. The dog was, in a sense, a gift of the gods. A long chest under one of the windows was open, some of its contents dragged out and spilling onto the floor. ‘That way. He too, when she had disappeared, called a carriage. There was—a service. ’ She raised the pistol. She would often steal away to tryst with him in the orchard, even now she felt her loins grow warm with the memory of his ardor. She leaned forward and addressed him. She wanted to return his gaze but focused intently on a spot next to and above the brick fireplace, as her music teachers had always taught her to do instead of looking directly at the audience. ‘He wanted me also to run away with him, and I wish very much that I had done so. ’ I said. “What did it matter?” she cried.
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