Of course, Rebecca was expected to launder and iron most of Tignor’s clothes now. What required dry cleaning, he didn’t trouble to have cleaned.

The damned old washing machine Rebecca was expected to use-! Almost as bad as her mother’s had been. It broke down often, spilling soapy water onto the linoleum floor of the washroom. And then Rebecca had to iron, or try to iron, Tignor’s white cotton shirts.

The iron was heavy, her wrist ached. Bad as Niagara Tubing except the smells weren’t so sickening. Ma had taught her to iron but only just flat things, sheets, towels. Pa’s few shirts she’d ironed herself taking care frowning over the ironing board as if all of her life, her female yearning, had been bound up in a man’s shirt spread out before her.

“Jesus. A blind cripple could do better than this.”

It was Tignor, examining one of his shirts. The iron had made creases at the collar. Ma had told her The collar is the hardest part, next are the shoulders. Front, back, and sleeves are easy.

“Oh, Tignor. I’m sorry.”

“I can’t wear this shit! You’ll have to wash it again, and iron it again.”

Rebecca took the shirt from him. It was a white cotton dress shirt with long sleeves. Still warm from the iron. She would not re-wash it, only just soak it and hang it to dry and try ironing it again in the morning.

In fact she stood mute, sullen. After Tignor went away. God damn she worked eight hours five days a week at fucking Niagara Tubing, did all the housework, took care of Niley and him and why wasn’t that enough?

“This factory job. What’s it pay?”

Out of nowhere came Tignor’s question. But Rebecca had the idea Tignor had wanted to ask for a long time.

She hesitated. Then told him.

(If she lied, and he found out. He would know then that she was trying to save money out of the salary.)

“That little? For a forty-hour week? Christ.”

Tignor was personally hurt, insulted.

“Tignor, it’s just the machine shop. I didn’t have any experience. They don’t want women.”

It was nearing the end of October. The sky was a hard steely knife-blade-blue. By midday the air was still cold, begrudging. Rebecca had not wished to think How will we endure the winter together in this old house!

She’d missed Tignor, in his absences. Now that Tignor was living with them, she missed her old loneliness.

And she was frightened of him: his physical presence, the swerve of his emotions, his eyes like the eyes of a blind man who has suddenly been gifted with sight, and doesn’t like what he sees.

Tignor’s new habit was running both his hands through his ravaged hair in a gesture of impatience. His hair had grown back slowly, was no longer thick. It was the hair of an ordinary man now: thin, lank, faded brown. Beneath, his skull was bony to the touch.

Tignor was ashamed for Rebecca and of her and of himself as her husband, for a long trembling moment he could not speak. Then he said, spitting the words, “I told you, Rebecca. You wouldn’t have to work anymore, that day we drove to Niagara Falls I told you. Didn’t I?”

He was almost pleading. Rebecca felt a stab of love for him, she knew she must console him. Yet she said:

“You said I didn’t have to work at the hotel. That’s all you said.”

“God damn, I meant any kind of job. That’s what I meant and you fucking know it.”

He was becoming angry. She knew, she knew!-she must not provoke him. Yet she said:

“I only took the job at Niagara Tubing because I needed money for Niley and me. A young child needs clothes, Tignor. And food. And you were away, Tignor, I hadn’t heard from you…”

“Bullshit. I sent you money. In the U.S. mail, I sent it.”

No. You did not.

You are remembering wrongly. You are lying.

Rebecca knew the warning signals, she must say nothing more.

Tignor went away, furious. She heard his footsteps. Vibrations of footsteps pulsing in her head. So Jacob Schwart in his righteous anger had walked heavily, on the heels of his boots. That after his shotgun-death had had to be cut from his feet like hooves grown into the flesh.

Jacob Schwart: a man, in his home. A man, head of his family. Heavily on his heels he walks signaling displeasure.

“At the factory, is he? This guy?”

Rebecca opened her eyes, confused. Tignor was standing before her, hadn’t he walked away?

“Foreman, is he? Some local big shot? Boss?”

Rebecca tried to smile. She believed that Tignor was only taunting, he wasn’t serious. Yet he could be dangerous.

Saying, “Hell no, not a boss. One of those assholes drives a Caddie. Not you. Look at you. Used to be damned good-looking. Used to have a real happy smile like a girl. Where’s it now? Anybody fucking you now, he’s got to be on the floor. I smell him on you: that burnt-rubbery stink and sweat like a nigger.”

Rebecca backed away.

“Tignor, please. Don’t say such ugly things, Niley might hear.”

“Let the kid hear! He’s got to know, his hot-shit mommy is a w-h-o-r-e.”

“Tignor, you don’t mean that.”

“Don’t, eh? Don’t ”mean‘ what, baby?“

“What you’re saying.”

“Exactly what’m I saying? You tell me.”

Rebecca said, trying not to stammer, “I love you, Tignor. I don’t know any man except you. There has never been any other man except you. You must know that! I have never-”

There was Niley crouched beside the sofa, listening. Niley who should have been in bed by now.

The previous night Tignor had been playing poker with friends in Chautauqua Falls. Exactly where, Rebecca didn’t know. He’d hinted it had been a “damn worthwhile” night and he was in a generous mood, in his soul.

He was! Fuck it, his mood wasn’t going to be ruined.

Tignor sank onto the sofa, heavily. Pulled Niley onto his lap. He seemed not to notice, unless it amused him, how the boy winced at his rough strong fingers.

Tignor hadn’t shaved today. His stubbled jaws glinted gray. He looked like a giant predator fish in an illustrated book: Niley stared. Daddy’s eyes were bloodshot, he’d rolled his shirtsleeves up tight over his biceps. Droplets of perspiration gleamed on his skin that looked like myriad skins, stitched together, just perceptibly mismatched.

“Niley, my boy! Tell Daddy does a man come to the house here to see Mommy?”

Niley stared as if not hearing. Tignor gave him a shake.

“A man? Some man? Maybe at night? When you’re supposed to be asleep but you ain’t? Tell Daddy.”

Niley shook his head faintly.

“What’s that? No?”

“No, Daddy.”

“Swear? Cross your heart and hope-to-die?”

Niley nodded, smiling uncertainly at Tignor.

“Not once? Never a man in this house? Eh?”

Niley was becoming confused, frightened. Rebecca ached to pull him from Tignor’s arms.

Tignor was demanding, “Never a man? Not ever? Not one man, never-ever? You haven’t waked up, and heard someone here? A man’s voice, eh?

Niley tried to hold himself very still. He would not look at Rebecca, if he did he would burst into tears and cry for her. He was facing Tignor, eyelids partly closed, quivering.

Rebecca knew he was thinking: radio voices? Was that what Daddy meant?

Niley whispered what sounded like yes. It was almost inaudible, pleading.

Tignor said sharply, “A man? Eh? Here?”

Rebecca touched Tignor’s hand, that was gripping Niley’s thin shoulder. “Tignor, you’re scaring him. It’s the radio he’s thinking of.”

“Radio? What radio?”

“The radio. Radio voices.”

“Hell, he’s told me, baby. He’s spilled the beans.”

“Tignor, you don’t mean any of this. You-”

“Niley admitted there’s been a man here. He has heard the voice. Mommy’s man.”

Rebecca tried to laugh, this could only be a joke.

She had a sense of things-falling-away. Walking on thin rubbery ice as it starts to sink, crack.