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wished he knew what it was that made her hurt, he wished he knew and could help her. He thought he ought to say, “Jill, tell me about it,” the way a grown man might, and then he thought, Stupid jackass, there’s nothing you can do to help her, no matter what it is. She doesn’t want your help.
    The music whined to an end, and suddenly Jill Latham smiled at him. She said, “It
is
a very old record. It tells a story, you know. I like it because it tells a story.” She bent and turned it off and walked back toward the couch. “I’m afraid I bored you with my old record.”
    “Bored! Gee, no! No, I was interested.”
    “A young scholar like yourself exposed to the more tawdry aspects of life.”
    “I wasn’t bored at all. I liked it.”
    “I’m afraid it’s almost impossible to hear the words any more. At one time they seemed very clear.”
Jill, tell me about it.
    Charlie swallowed what was left in the bottle and Jill Latham sighed. “Well,” she said, “well, it was very nice of you to accompany me to my home. I did appreciate it greatly, greatly.”
    “Heck, no. I mean, thanks for the
Coke.”
    He was standing then, looking down at her. She said, “You are a tall boy too.”
    Charlie grinned. “I really liked the record,” he said.
    “You’re sweet. You’re very sweet.” She looked at him for what seemed a long time and he had to look away from her.
    “Very sweet,” she said again. She walked with him out through the hall to the screen door. He had not wanted to go, he wanted to stay. He felt himself absorbed with the mystery of her and nothing about those minutes with her seemed as though they had anything to do with Azrael, Vermont. They seemed far away and foreign.
    “Thank you again for the pencil,” she said.
    “Thanks for the Coke.”
    “Perhaps we’ll do it again. You have nice manners, Charlie Wright.”
    “Thanks.”
    “Good night.”
    “Thanks,” he said again foolishly. “Good night.”
    He walked slowly down the wooden steps and onto the sidewalk. Fireflies darted past in the darkness as he reached the street, and he looked back at the house as he went on down, but she was not in the doorway. He said her name to himself quietly aloud, and he thought, It didn’t happen, it didn’t happen, it didn’t happen. When he reached Evans Street, he began to run for no reason.

Chapter Five
    Q.
Do you like your sister?
    A.
Evie? Sure. She’s my sister, isn’t she? Oh, we had little fights sometimes and I didn’t like the way she talked about dirty things. But I knew she didn’t mean them. I mean, she never did any of the dirty things she talked about.
    Q.
How do you know this?
    A.
Well, she’s my
sister.
I just
know.
    — From psychiatric examination of the accused by Dr. A. Jewitt
    T HE SKY WAS DARK , a warm wind was rising, and a man on the radio was talking about soap. Jim Prince swung the car into the soft shoulder off the highway and doused the headlights. He let the radio play. Evie’s head was on his lap, her legs curled under her on the seat. He said, “Baby? Baby?”
    When she didn’t answer he took her arms gently and raised her to his chest, brushing his lips against her cheek. “Pretty girl,” he said. “Pretty girl.”
    “I feel strange.”
    “Sure you do.”
    “So much, huh?”
    He said, “Sure, so much. Five or six apiece.”
    “Beer tastes awful at first. Then it tastes like water.”
    “Baby-baby …”
    “Jim, don’t do anything.”
    “I wouldn’t hurt you. I wouldn’t — ” For a long time then he kissed her, and she kissed him. They moved themselves around in the front seat of the car so that they were not cramped under the steering wheel, and the man who was talking about soap before was playing music now, waltzes.
    Evie found herself surprised. She could almost float; not away from everyone the way she wanted to before, but toward someone, toward Jim Prince. She thought, I’m drunk but I’m not sorry. I’ll be sorry tomorrow, but now