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Show 17 "Sadie gave it to me." We are on old ground again, back to the funeral. "She paid you with it," Tate bellows, and he leaps up, stomps across the living room, summons Luel, and marches toward the door. "For that, you let her die." * * * But it is Luel who is the clever one, and where her father's rage seeks destruction, hers demands contrition and change. The following day, I find Luel at the door. It has been a week and a half since her grandmother's funeral now, and she makes no excuse. She wants to come in. "Someone's already here." I do not tell her who it is, or why, but I know she can see an empty wheelchair in the hall. "I'll be back in an hour," she flashes, and turns on her heels. I see the swinging hem of her black dress as she goes. I turn back, bolt the door, move slowly across the living room, through the alcove, to the bedroom. "Sorry for the disturbance," I say to the woman in my bed: a peroxide blonde named Sallie. Sallie is not so old as some of my lovers, but deformed by a relentless, inexorable arthritis. She has lived in the home for fifteen years. "We all want to share you," Sallie laughs, but it is no good. She covers up her distorted legs with the sheet. I am disturbed, agitated, disquieted; I cannot relax. I put my hand awkwardly on her breast, above her misshapen ribcage; she allows my hand to remain for a moment, but does not respond. After |