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Show Woodworth/119 of the world. Except behind Grayson, she can see the chair gently rocking, as if it has a life of its own. Shirts, sheets, pans, Salvation Army and Bloomingdale's, she moves in. Spends mornings painting, sanding, making lists. Ice trays, Comet, toilet paper. Blankets. Call phone company. Electricity? It isnH shut off. "aybe if she doesn't tell anyone, they won't bill her. If they send a bill for the old tenant, she won't pay it. Things from her old room. Funny, it's old already. She has a new room, a new home. Doesn't sleep well, the shadows are different, the noises unfamiliar. But a new room. At her parents house (home, too?) she picks through the rags of memories. Closets, back of bureau drawers. No need for her foot stool, the one Jake made. She can leave her drugs right out in the middle of her living room. No one's business but her own. No one will see them, touch them, but her. What for clothes? She packs what she will need for work, adds jeans, work shirts. Leaves the winter clothes, the sweaters, the clothes she won't ever wear, but can't part with. Sentimental value. Did she ever really wear anything like that? A mini-dress, electric pink and green stripes. She puts it back in her closet. Ruth avoids her. Upstairs, downstairs, watches television, takes naps. Never even so much as glances in her room. Have you seen my tennis racquet? My rain coat? Can I take one of these frying pans? Her mother regards her vacantly. Sure take what you want. No, I haven't seen it. In and out, in and out, up and down stairs. The trips go on forever, "But everything she is taking, she want out right away. It feels good to be leaving. Her anger at Ruth's indifference feels rr~1 piiHifinniTi't •-*•'• until she is really out. Moved. Settled. |