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I’m not having your aunt worried.’”
    â€œWhat’s that?” said Aunt Maria. “Who’s worried?”
    â€œMe,” said Chris. “Elaine worried me like a rabbit.”
    â€œI expect Larry’s been out shooting,” said Aunt Maria. “He often brings home a rabbit. I wonder if he’s got one for us. I’m fond of rabbit stew.”
    Chris looked at the ceiling and gave up. He’s playing his guitar at the moment, and Aunt Maria is pretending not to hear that, either. It looks as if All is Forgiven. And that’s what makes me feel guilty. Mum and I have put Aunt Maria to bed and she’s sitting up on her pillows, all clean and rosy in her lacy white nightgown, with her hair in frizzy pigtails, listening to A Book at Bedtime on Mum’s radio. She looks like a teddy bear. Quite lovable. Mum asked her to say when she wants the electricity off, and she gave the sweetest smile and said, “Oh, when you’re ready. Let Naomi finish that story she’s writing so busily first.”
    And I feel horrible. I’ve read through my notebook and it’s full of just beastly things about Aunt Maria and she thinks I’m writing a story. It’s worse than Chris, because I’m being secret in my nastiness. I wish I was charitable, like Mum. I admire Mum. She’s so pretty, as well as so cheerful. She has a neat little nose and a pretty forehead that comes out in a little bulge. Her eyes always look bright, even when she’s tired. Chris takes after Mum. They both have those eyes, with long curly eyelashes. I wish I did. What eyelashes I have are butterscotch-color, like my hair, and they do nothing for plain brown eyes. My forehead is straight. I am not sweet at all and I wish Aunt Maria would not keep calling me her “sweet little Naomi.” I feel a real worm.
    I felt so bad after that, that I just had to talk to Mum before we blew out the candle. We both sat up in bed. Mum smoked a cigarette and I cried, and we both expected Aunt Maria to wake up and shout that the house was on fire. But she didn’t. We could hear her snoring, while downstairs Chris defiantly twanged away at his guitar.
    â€œMy poor Mig!” said Mum. “I know just how you feel!”
    â€œNo, you don’t!” I snuffled. “You’re charitable. I’m worse than Chris, even!”
    â€œCharitable, be damned!” said Mum. “I want to slay Auntie half the time, and I could strangle Elaine all the time! At first I was as muddled as you are, because Auntie is very old and she can be very sweet, and I only got by because I do rather like nursing people. Then Chris did me a favor, behaving like that. He was admitting something I was pretending wasn’t there. People do have savage feelings, Mig.”
    â€œBut it’s not right to have savage feelings!” I gulped.
    â€œNo, but everyone does,” said Mum, lighting a second cigarette off the end of the first. “Auntie does. That’s what’s upsetting us all. She’s utterly selfish and a complete expert in making other people do what she wants. She uses people’s guilt about their savage feelings. Does that make you feel better?”
    â€œNot really,” I said. “She has to make people do things for her, because she can’t do things for herself, can she?”
    â€œAs to that,” Mum said, puffing away, “I’m not convinced, Mig. I’ve been looking at her carefully, and I don’t think there’s too much wrong with her. I think she could do a lot more for herself if she wanted to. I think she’s just convinced herself she can’t. Tomorrow I’m going to have a go at making her do some things for herself.”
    That made me feel better. I think it made Mum feel better, too, but she hasn’t made much headway getting Aunt Maria to do things. She’s been trying half the morning. Aunt Maria will say, “I left