Have to go upstairs ... rest ... sit on my bed ... take off these clothes ... rest ...
In his room he closed the door, sensing that the latch slid into place.
He was alone!!
Sitting on his bed he noticed the guns in their oak rack, the tackle, the reel, the bass above his bed; he thought he had seen them for the last time. Dragging off his shoes, he attempted to figure out what day it was: Wednesday? Friday? It didn't matter.
His socks on the floor, he thought of stretching out as he was: his head was mumbling about fishing gear: his eyes returned to the poles: beads of light twinkled on ferrules and reels. The transparent cover had fallen off one of the reels.
In the bathroom he kicked his clothes into a corner and listened to the water rushing into the tub, amazed by the jet: water, ordinary, hot water, wonderful water, swishing water. He tossed a washcloth over the side of the tub and watched it float before it became waterlogged. So, the heater was okay.
In the clear warmth he found rest: marvelous: marvelous to lie there: and the cake of soap, spinning! He had planned to scrub his hair and then dress but he knew he had to sleep: with the hot washcloth over his face he breathed deeply: he sopped it over his eyelids: reluctantly, he climbed out and half dried himself, stopping to finger the colorful towel, hold it out, count the blue and white stripes.
From his bed he turned out the lamp, and let himself go: it was like that, just couldn't be helped: a sort of a toboggan: the room stopped existing, the sheets gathered about his belly, legs, and shoulders: they felt warm: then, there was silence, and then--though he wasn't sure--someone was knocking, knocking insistently on the door, someone was speaking:
Lena? Claude? Jean?
" ... Supper's on the table ... It's getting late. Are you coming down? Jeannette's come back from the hospital..."