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window。 He carved some beautiful alphabet blocks for Ralph
and invented a little needle…threader。 Over the few watches
that he had to work on he took great pains。
Mick still followed Mister Singer。 But she didn't want to。 It
was like there was something wrong about her following after
him without his knowing。 Two or three days she played hookv
from school。 She walked behind him when he went to work
and hung around on the corner near his266
267
store all day。 When he ate his dinner at Mister Brannon's she
went into the caf6 and spent a nickel for a sack of peanuts。
Then at night she followed him on these dark； long walks。 She
stayed on the opposite side of the street from him and about a
block behind。 When he stopped； she stopped also—and when
he walked fast she ran to keep up with him。 So long as she
could see him and be near him she was right happy。 But
sometimes this queer feeling would come to her and she knew
that she was doing wrong。 So she tried hard to keep busy at
home。
She and her Dad were alike in the way that now they always
had to be fooling with something。 She kept up with all that
went on in the house and the neighborhood。 Spare…rib's big
sister won fifty dollars at a movie bank night。 Baby Wilson
had the bandage off her head now； but her hair was cut short
like a boy's。 She couldn't dance in the soiree this year； and
when her mother took her to see it Baby began to yell and cut
up during one of the dances。 They had to drag her out of the
Opera House。 And on the sidewalk Mrs。 Wilson had to whip
her to make her behave。 And Mrs。 Wilson cried； too。 George
hated Baby。 He would hold his nose and stop up his ears when
she passed by the house。 Pete Wells ran away from home and
was gone three weeks。 He came back barefooted and very
hungry。 He bragged about how he had gone all the way to
New Orleans。
Because of Etta； Mick still slept in the living…room。 The short
sofa cramped her so much that she had to make up sleep in
study hall at school。 Every other night Bill swapped with her
and she slept with George。 Then a lucky break came for them。
A fellow who had a room upstairs moved away。 When after a
week had gone by and nobody answered the ad in the paper；
their Mama told Bill he could move up to the vacant room。
Bill was very pleased to have a place entirely by himself away
from the family。 She moved in with George。 He slept like a
little warm kitty and breathed very quiet。
She knew the night…time again。 But not the same as in the last
summer when she walked in the dark by herself and listened
to the music and made plans。 She knew the night a different
way now。 In bed she lay awake。 A queer
afraidness came to her。 It was like the ceiling was slowly
pressing down toward her face。 How would it be if the house
fell apart？ Once their Dad had said the whole place ought to
be condemned。 Did he mean that maybe some night when they
were asleep the walls would crack and the house collapse？
Bury them under all the plaster and broken glass and smashed
furniture？ So that they could not move or breathe？ She lay
awake and her muscles were stiff。 In the night there was
creaking。 Was that somebody walking —somebody else
awake besides her—Mister Singer？
She never thought about Harry。 She had made up her mind to
forget him and she did forget him。 He wrote that he had a job
with a garage in Birmingham。 She answered with a card
saying 'O。K。' as they had planned。 He sent his mother three
dollars every week。 It seemed like a very long time had passed
since they went to the woods together。
During the day she was busy in the outside room。 But at night
she was by herself in the dark and figuring was not enough。
She wanted somebody。 She tried to keep George awake。 'It
sure is fun to stay awake and talk in the dark。 Less us talk
awhile together。
'
He made a sleepy answer。
'See the stars out the window。 If s a hard thing to realize that
every single one of those little stars is a planet as large as the
earth。
'
*How do they know that？
'
They just do。 They got ways of measuring。 That's science。
'
'I don't believe in it'
She tried to egg him on to an argument so that he would get
mad and stay awake。 He just let her talk and didn't seem to pay
attention。 After a while he said：
'Look； Mick！ You see that branch of the tree？ Don't it look
like a pilgrim forefather lying down with a gun in his hand？
'
'It sure does。 That's exactly what it's like。 And see over there
on the bureau。 Don't that bottle look like a funny man with
a
hat on？
'
。Naw；' George said。 'It don't look a bit like one to me。'
She took a drink from a glass of water on the floor。 'Less me
and you play a game—the name game。 You can be It if you
want to。 Whichever you like。 You can choose。'268
f
269
He put his little fists up to his face and breathed in a quiet；
even way because he was falling asleep。
'Wait； George！' she said。 〃This'll be fun。 I'm somebody
beginning with an M。 Guess who I am。
'
George sighed and his voice was tired。 'Are you Harpo
Marx？
'
'No； Fm not even in the movies。
'
'I don't know。
'
'Sure you do。 My name begins with the letter M and I live in
Italy。 You ought to guess this。
'
George turned over on his side and curled up in a ball。
；
He did not answer。
'My name begins with an M but sometimes I'm called a
f
name beginning with D。 In Italy。 You can guess。
'
The room was quiet and dark and George was asleep。 She
pinched him and twisted his ear。 He groaned but did not
awake。 She fitted in close to him and pressed her face against
his hot little naked shoulder。 He would sleep all through the
night while she was figuring with decimals。
Was Mister Singer awake in his room upstairs？ Did the ceiling
creak because he was walking quietly up and down； drinking
a
cold orange crush and studying the chess men laid out on the
table？ Had ever he felt a terrible afraidness like this one？ No。
He had never done anything wrong。 He had never done wrong
and his heart was quiet in the nighttime。 Yet at the same time
he would understand。
If only she could tell him about this； then it would be better。
She thought of how she would begin to tell him。 Mister Singer
—I know this girl not any older than I am— Mister Singer；
I
don't know whether you understand a thing like this or not—
Mister Singer。 Mister Singer。 She said his name over and over。
She loved him better than anyone in the family； better even
than George or her Dad。 It was a different love。 It was not like
anything she had ever felt in her life before。
In the mornings she and George would dress together and talk。
Sometimes she wanted very much to be close to George。 He
had grown taller and was pale and peaked。 His soft； reddish
hair lay raggedly over the tops of his little ears。 His sharp eyes
were always squinted so that his face had a strained look。 His
permanent teeth were coming in； but they were blue and far
apart like his baby teeth had
。
been。 Often his jaw was crooked because he had a habit of
feeling out the sore new teeth with his tongue。
'Listen here； George；' she said。 'Do you love me？
'
'Sure。 I love you O。K。
'
It was a hot； sunny morning during the last week of school。
George was dressed and he lay on the floor doing his number
work。 His dirty little fingers squeezed the pencil tight and he
kept breaking the lead point。 When he was finished she held him
by the shoulders and looked hard into his face。 'I mean a lot。 A
whole lot。'
'Lemme go。 Sure I love you。 Ain't you my sister？'
'I know。 But suppose I wasn't your sister。 Would you love me
then？'
George backed away。 He had run out of shirts and wore a dirty
pullover sweater。 His wrists were thin and blue…veined。 The
sleeves of the sweater had stretched so that they hung loose and
made his hands look very small。
'If you wasn't my sister then I might not know you。 So I couldn't
love you。'
。But if you did know me and I wasn't your sister。
'
*But how do you know I would？ You can't prove it。
'
。Well； just take it for granted and pretend。
'
'I reckon I would like you all right。 But I still say you can't
prove…
'
'Prove！ You got that word on the brain。 Ptove and trick。
Everything is either a trick or it's got to be proved。 I can't stand
you； George Kelly。 I hate you。
'
'O。K。 Then I don't like you none either。
'
He crawled down under the bed for something。
*What you want under there？ You better leave my things alone。
If I ever caught you meddling in my private box I'd bust your
head against the side of the wall。 I would。 I'd stomp on your
brains。
'
George came out from under the bed with his spelling book。 His
dirty little paw reached in a hole in the mattress where he hid his
marbles。 Nothing could faze that kid。 He took his time about
choosing three brown agates to take with him。 'Aw； shucks；
Mick；' he answered her。 George was too little and too tough。
There wasn't any sense in loving him。 He knew even less about
things than she did。
School was out and she had passed every subject—some with
A
plus and some by the skin of her teeth。 The days270
were long and hot。 Fin