Mrs. Goudeket snorted, put the car in gear and ground off down the road to Goudeket's Green Acres.
"Bitch," said Sharon softly. She walked over to the motor pool man. "You're Mr. Cioni, aren't you? Somebody said you were a plumbing engineer."
"Just a plumber," said Mr. Cioni modestly, but flattered.
"There's going to be a lot of work for you before long."
"Oughtta do pretty well out of it. The shop's hardly touched. My wife, thank God, hardly knew it was happening. She's an invalid."
"How terrible! But shouldn't somebody be taking care of her? I'm a sort of practical nurse, you know—"
"Well, say, that would be—"
Sharon Froman was very tired. Even while she moved through the pickup ritual for perhaps the twentieth time a crazy, spinning maggot grew in her head that she really ought to throw herself on the ground and scream; it was the only sensible thing to do. With a great deal of effort she resisted and forced out the foolish idea, knowing it would come back.
Mrs. Goudeket twisted the wheel of the car hard, to avoid a fallen telephone pole. "Such a thing, such a thing," she muttered as she avoided the muddy shoulder.
"Only a telephone pole, Mrs. G.," said Dick McCue.