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Show Woodworth/l5 moss green carpet still lies on the floor, a montage of spilled milk from her attempts at raising the wild baby rabbits that Mr. Grayson plowed up in the field; of splattered india ink and oil paint from her year as an artist; crusted brown spots of milk, Pepsi, or Tab -- remnants of her afternoons spent lying on the rug talking to Rachael; and the cropped place by the bureau, where Jake had trimmed her rug with a pair of scissors so they could pretend horses had been grazing there. She reaches up under the bench Jake made her in his first shop class, and had even burned her initials, "MAB" on top. On the secret shelf on the inside, she touches a glass ash tray, a plastic baggy of dope, and a spiral-bound notebook, a pen tucked in its spine. Marty pulls the dope out, slips it in her pocket, and runs downstairs, through the glass French doors, out the back of the house into the blue/green chattering whistling afternoon. A row of hedges separates the Browning's patio from the Grayson's pool. Behind it, Marty can hear the "tsk tsk tsk" of a sprinkler. Later on in the summer, the Grayson's will begin their ceaseless round of pool parties, and splashing laughter on clouds of charcoal smoke will permeate the Browning's home. Past the pool house, the hedge ends, and the Browning and Grayson lawns become field. Legally, the field belongs to the Brownings. But Mr. Grayson, Westfield's incongruous farmer, plows it three times every summer. Marty used to ride on the front of the tractor, feeling the engine warm against her thighs. Sometimes, Mr. Grayson would hit a rabbit's nest, the mother running frantically from her children, with a. lep rtfinrn nff. or half a rib cage reaped from her side. |