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Show 73 by himself; he sits back on the chair, and his eyes move around the room. He studies the small-figured wallpaper, the outlines of the chest of drawers, the roseate doorknob that has survived from earlier generations. His gaze falls on the dresser; it is quite bare, except for the small vial of pills and three framed pictures, but beside it is her purse, the one she always carries. It is a plain brown leather purse, large and capacious, much used. She has had this purse almost ever since he can remember, he reflects; it never seems to wear out or go out of style, or else she secretly replaces each with an identical one every several years, but in any case his gaze remains rooted to this purse. It is large. It is always with her. And it is almost the only thing of hers which has not been packed, boxed, labelled for someone else. Almost without realizing it, he finds his hand extended, finds himself reaching for the purse, finds it in his hand now, in his lap as he sits in the chair. He strokes the leather; it is almost as soft as she. A sudden extremely vivid memory comes to him of a playmate being punished severely for taking two nickels from his mother's pocketbook; he, Evan, would never have tried. He looks at his own mother; she is still sleeping. But now he is opening the catch, looking down into the brown interior of the purse: he sees several letters, the envelopes of which are slit open, a pack of tissues, a single lipstick and one comb; the wallet. He looks at her again; she is still sleeping, and he opens the wallet. The credit cards have been removed, and there is only a small amount of money. But there is still a picture of John, and another picture of the family all together, when Luel was still alive, posed on the lawn at some earlier family |