| OCR Text |
Show 96 "Here," Annis says to the child, as she looks out to the sea. The girl brings the car to a stop in the center of the town, just at the end of grassy strip next to the beach; she watches the old, soft woman, her grandmother, mother of her own dead mother, climb slowly out of the car. "Goodbye, " says Annis to the girl, but it is more than enough. The girl watches her walk away, still holding the bag with two lemons. The girl makes no objection to her going, but her eyes follow Annis down the street. When she can no longer see Annis, she puts her foot to the gas again, and turns the car in the direction from which they came. It is midday; the sun is bright in the California town, and Annis picks her way slowly down the street. She reaches a druggist's; without hesitation, without even so much as a glance at the brightness of the sunlight or the waves on the water she enters, selects from the shelves a large bottle of sleeping tablets, a bottle of aspirin, a piece of rubber sheeting, the sort made for babies'_ cribs, a box of candles, then a box of rat killer. She decides that the order looks suspicious; she adds to it a dozen paper baby diapers, a plastic baby's cup, a small box of sugar. She pays for the items, steps out onto the street again. Not far away she sees a small, beachfront motel; it is quiet at this time of year, and the beach is uncrowded. She asks for a room. "Facing the water," she says, "I must have a view." "Is it just for yourself?" asks the motel owner, eyeing her as he does all of his clients. "Yes," she says. "I won't be leaving for at least three days." She takes |
