"Maw," I screamed. "Maw!"
"What is it, honey?" she asked in her normal voice as she came inside, crossed the room and placed a horny hand on my forehead in one of her rare caresses.
"You'll catch cold," I mumbled, somehow ashamed.
"I was just listening to the katydids. They sound—fresh, like spring-water," she lied.
"Don't listen any more."
"All right, honey, I'll go to bed. Don't worrit yourself."
But she did not keep her promise.
Several months later I came home from school ahead of Annette, who was dusting erasers for the teacher. At the front door I stopped as I heard animated conversation inside. Thinking it was one of the neighbor women, who called occasionally to gossip, I rushed in, eager not to miss anything, then stopped, heart in mouth, terrified.
Aunt Ellen was out of the house on one of the chores to which she now condescended to put her white hands and Maw was occupying the old rocker before the mirror. But what frightened me was the chatter in two distinct voices which still continued.