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Show THE UPSTAIRS PEOPLE-45 THE UPSTAIRS PEOPLE It was all because of that woman with braids and rows of onions and l i t t le jars of eggs that she had to live like this, sharing her two and a half rooms in the basement with these human-like bugs that washed their faces like kittens and ate each other in the act of love. And now Michael had deposited one on her bare back while she was asleep, making her yell, grab the horrible thing in her fist, fling it to the floor, where it crawled beside the yellow bedspread that had slid off the bed. Shuddering, she wheeled herself to the bathroom, swung expertly over the toilet seat, lowered herself with arms that bulged like a man's. She sat there for a long time. There was no hurry, after all. Except that Michael was mewling for his food, after no doubt having feasted all night on the creatures. Now that she was up, she might as well feed him, might asA think about working on her shells. The system was simple enough: a l i t t le box for each one, with a label on the side, all f i t t i ng into a large box like a tray. But the labels kept falling off, or the shells kept falling out of their l i t t le boxes, or the boxes slid around somehow. But she would get out the shell book with the colored photographs and look it up again, copy the Latin name patiently, and below it, the common name, on a white gummed label, stick it on the side of a l i t t le box, and place the designated shell inside. |