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Show 18 a moment, I try to move my hand across her breast, but she takes my hand in hers and moves it away. With a small, almost inaudible sigh, she lifts herself awkwardly up from the bed, stations herself upright, propels herself in desperately contorted fashion across the floor with her walker until she reaches the wheelchair. She moves awkwardly around from the walker, positions herself precariously in front of the seat, lets herself drop into it. Her incongruously blonde hair covers her face. She rests a moment from the exertion, and her arthritic hands grasp the wheels. "I'll walk you home," I say uncomfortably, still buttoning my shirt. I feel oddly unclean. I try to apologize, but it does not help, and I see Sallie shrink back into her cripple's chair, alone, defeated, old. "I don't think I'm fancy enough for you," she says bravely, trying to joke about what is most painful of all. I try to tell her it is not so, that I love being with her, but the explanation fails, and the taut images of Luel press themselves into my mind. Luel will be back, soon. I tuck Sal lie's useless legs up onto the wheelchair, push her out the door, along the walk, as one might push a cholicy infant, irritated, and impatient. I push her along the single block to the GoldenGlow, bump the chair up the stairs, leave her with a hasty pat in the hall. "You're plenty fancy," I lie. "You know I love blondes." With an effort she tries to turn herself around in the chair to see me again, but by the time she accomplishes it I am gone. When I reach home, I am out of breath. Luel is already there. She has used the hour to change her clothes, and she wears skintight slacks, a shirt |