I found myself smiling at the thought of Marshall seething with desire while blocking my kicks, and seeing me smile made him laugh out loud.

"See you then," I said, with a sudden resurgence of shyness. I gently extricated myself from his arms and went to my car. As he passed me to go to his Toyota, I had a back view of broad shoulders and tight butt to admire.

It had been so long since my plans had extended beyond my latest batch of library books or a movie I'd rented that I hardly knew what to think of as I drove the familiar route to my next job. I would be sweaty after class. Could I shower at his house? Would he expect me to stay the night, or would I come home to sleep? Where would I park my car? It was nobody's business that I would be visiting Marshall's rental house. I liked my life private.

As I slid out of my car at the Winthrops' back door, I decided I was excited, and scared. But most of all, I felt unsettled, a feeling I was having trouble enjoying. I'm not used to having so many variables to contend with, I realized.

But I had to put all that away in the back of my mind and get to work. I let myself in, locked the door behind me, and looked around the kitchen. The cook, Earline Poffard, had been at work; the counter was spotless and there was a full garbage can under the sink. Earline comes in twice a week, and she cooks enough suppers for the Winthrops to eat until she comes again. I had never met Earline face-to-face, but I knew her from her work; Earline labels everything she prepares, all her garbage lands in the bag, and she scours all the dishes herself, drys them, and puts them away. I have only to clean the outside of the microwave and the door of the dishwasher from time to time, and mop, and the kitchen cleaning is done.

For the first time, it occurred to me that I would like to meet Earline. Perhaps Earline was equally curious about me.

The habits of years reasserted themselves, and I set to work. I didn't want to be late to class this night; I looked forward to seeing Marshall my lover, and I didn't want Marshall my sensei to be shooting me the disapproving look he'd given me last time.

I'd gotten the dusting done and was getting the mop out of the closet when I heard a key in the lock.

"Hey, Lily," called a casual male voice.

"Hi, Bobo," I replied, making a mental note to tell Beanie she needed a new mop.

"Hey, what about that old guy getting killed over by your place?" Bobo said, his voice getting closer.

I glanced over my shoulder. The boy—the six-foot-two boy—was leaning against the kitchen sink, looking spectacular in cutoffs and an Umbro shirt. His grin betrayed his age, but his body had grown up ahead of him. I answer the phone while I'm working at the Winthrops‘, and most of the calls in the summer are inevitably for Bobo. He has his own phone, of course, but he gives only particular friends that number, much to his mother's irritation.

"He died," I said.

"That's no answer, Lily! C'mon, you must know all about it."

"I'm sure you know as much about it as I do."

"Is it true someone called old Claude Friedrich while he was sacked out and told him where the body was?"

"Yes."

"See, now that's the kind of thing I want you to tell me."

"You already knew that, Bobo." My patience had almost evaporated.

"Well... give me the inside scoop. You gotta know something that wasn't in the paper, Lily."

"I doubt it." Bobo loved to talk, and I knew he'd follow me around the house if I gave him the slightest encouragement.

"How old are you, Bobo?" I asked.

"Oh, I'm a senior. I'm seventeen," he said. "That's why I'm outta class early today. You gonna miss me next year when I go off to college, Lily?"

"You know it, Bobo." I got the Mop & Glow from the cupboard, then turned the sink water to hot. "For one thing, I ought to charge your parents less money because I won't have your mess to clean up."

"Oh, by the way, Lily..."

When he didn't finish his sentence, I glanced over, to see Bobo was blushing a bright red.

As I raised my eyebrows to show I was waiting for him to finish his sentence, I squirted some cleaner on the floor. The water was running hot; I squeezed out the excess water and began to mop.

"When you were cleaning my room the other day, did you happen to find... something... ah, personal?"

"Like the condom?"

"Um. Right. Yeah." Bobo stared at something fascinating by his right foot.

"Um-hmm."

"What'd you do with it?"

"What do you mean? I threw it away. You think I was going to sleep with it under my pillow?"

"I mean... did you tell my mom? Or my dad?"

"Not my business," I said, noting that Howell Winthrop, Jr., came a decided second on the list of people Bobo feared.

"Thanks, Lily!" Bobo said enthusiastically. He met my eyes briefly, his shoulders relaxed: He was a man looking at blue skies.

"Just keep using them."

"What? Oh. Oh, yeah."

And Bobo, if possible, grew redder than before. He left with a great show of nonchalance, jingling his keys and whistling, obviously feeling he'd had an adult conversation about sex with an older woman. I was willing to bet he'd be more careful disposing of personal items in the future, as well he ought.

I found myself singing as I worked, something I hadn't done in years. I sing hymns when I'm by myself; I know so many, from the countless Sundays I'd spent sitting with my parents and Varena in church—always in the same pew, fifth from the front on the left. I found myself remembering the mints my mother always had in her purse, my father's pen and the notepad he produced for me to draw on when I got too restless.

But thinking of my childhood seldom brings me anything but pain. Back then, my parents hadn't cast their eyes down when they spoke to me. They'd been able to hold conversations without tiptoeing verbally around anything they thought might distress their ravaged daughter. I'd been able to hug them without bracing myself for the contact.

From long practice, I was able to block out this unproductive and well-traveled train of thought. I concentrated on the pleasure of singing. It's always an amazement to me that I have a pretty voice. I'd had lessons for a few years; I used to sing solo in church, and perform at weddings from time to time. Now I sang "Amazing Grace." I reached up to brush the hair out of my face when I was finished, and it was a shock to find it was short.

Chapter Eight

- |

I'd almost forgotten my sedentary neighbor's participation in the Wednesday-night class. It sure hadn't looked like he was having a good time, so I was surprised to see Carlton warming up when I bowed in the doorway. He was trying to touch his toes. I could tell from the way his mouth twisted that movement was painful.

"The full soreness has set in, huh?" I said as I sat on the floor to pull off my shoes.

"Even my hair hurts," he said through clenched teeth as he strained downward. His fingers just managed to touch the tops of his feet.

"This is your worst day," I told him.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"I thought maybe it would help to know that tomorrow won't be so bad." I rolled my socks in a neat ball and stuck them in my right shoe. I stood, rotated my neck gently, then bent from my waist and put my hands flat on the floor. I gave a sigh of pleasure as my back stretched and the tension of the day flowed out.

"Show-off," Carlton said bitterly.

I straightened and looked him over. Carlton was wearing shorts and a T-shirt. To the untrained eye, he would have looked pretty good, but I could see the lack of definition and development in his arms and thighs. Overweight, he wasn't; in shape, he wasn't.