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Show Moon - 47 Always, there's memory-space for pictures of our own design: The colors of a rainbow in a splash of oil. Little wings fallen from the maple trees. Debussy's Afternoon of a Faun, lovely pieces of sound like sun-spattered leaves. Ruth came to visit sometimes, and once when she was angry at Joy, she proclaimed loudly, "You're just like your father." This puzzled Joy, for she thought her grandmother liked James very much, liked him, indeed, far more than she herself did. He made her sit at the table alone until she finished every bite of food, every drop of milk. He did not allow her to play outside after dinner, even in the summer. "Little girls," he told her, "aren't safe in the dark." And when her mother wasn't feeling well, which was often, he said to Joy, "Where's my dinner? How come I don't have any clean handkerchiefs?" He never seemed to look at her when she spoke, but when he was angry, his eyes cut into her like glass. James declared that no more money could be spent on art paper, so her mother saved the white shirt cardboards from the laundry for Joy to draw on. She was drawing angels then, situating them on clouds high above the world. She wanted very much to be an angel. Every night before bedtime she would tell her mother that tonight was the night she was going to heaven and become an angel. I think she got this idea from Grandad's death. Her mother took her into her room early one evening, not bothering to turn on the light. She lifted up her daughter's hand and squeezed it between cold hands. She was quiet awhile, and |