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Show THE UPSTAIRS PEOPLE-47 looked for the woman. There she was in the garden, her braids coiled on top of her head like a nest of worms. She was wearing coveralls and leather sandals, and she was laying down bricks into a narrow walkway. Betty sat for a long time watching her, the rise and fall of her straight back, the graceful bend of her knees, the way her long neck arched with the strain of lifting. A man, wearing jeans that were torn in the knees, wheeled more bricks to her in a small wheelbarrow. He saw Betty first, motioned to the woman. She looked up, smiled, wiped her hands on her coveralls, and the two of them walked over to Betty. Betty twisted around and wrestled the jar out of the pocket, held it up to the woman. "This." The woman took it from her, unscrewed the cap. "Poor thing, it'll die with no air. But thank you. Do you live downstairs?" Betty nodded. "What do you think of our walkways?" the woman said. The man glanced at the too-wide wheelchair and blushed. "They are lovely," Betty smiled. That was her strong point, they always told her, putting people at ease with her handicap. She waited for the relief in their faces, then went on. "But the bugs..." "Bugs?" The woman smiled. "The mantis's? They're harmless; they eat the aphids." "But there was one in the place where I work with my shells." "Shells?" the man said, stabbing at the word like a bird. "Shells?" the woman said. "What sort of work?" Betty didn't know how to explain, so she said nothing. |