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animals, two by two. But the Dove is a new one on me.”
    “ Dove’s ship.”
    “Same like the Ark?”
    “Same’s Mayflower , on’y better. Lis’n, Duke, quit crack’n dumb, quit it I said quit it! ’M drunk, ’m splain’n good’s can. Hollises, they come . ’N Ark ’n Dove , to S’ Mary’s City. ’N t’ scum like him, to goddam bus boy, it’s same’s marry’n God. Same, on’y better. God, maybe, loves ’m, no ’count’n f’ taste. Hollis wou’n spit on ’m.”
    He cussed some more, then apologized for doing it, because he said in Prince Georges they didn’t cuss good, like in Anne Arundel, where they do it in meter. But my heart was jumping, because of what he seemed to be saying, that whatever was back of the marriage, it didn’t include any love. Little by little, instead of shutting him up, I led him on to talk, and all of a sudden he burst out: “He nailed ’er feet to board . Like they do ’em geese .”
    “What geese, Bill?”
    “Stuff’n their livers up.”
    “Oh, to make the patty?”
    “O.K., y’ know how’s done. Duke, she wou’n look at ’m, ha’n been f’ grub. She went ’way, see? F’m S’ Mary’s, ’count S’Mary’s got no work. Went ’way, five years ’go, age eighteen, took job ’n Wash’n, Byu’ Grav’n Print’n, live on Branch Av’nue. Eat, Mr. Val place. Spen’ all ’er money, f’ grub. Grub she mus’ have, Duke, ’r she die. Got’s trouble. Fatnis, ’n glan’s. ’N ’en he got in it.”
    “Yeah? What he do?”
    “He’n care about her , not one hoot’n hell. Till, until, ’e hear name . Hollis. Hollis . Chrisalminey, to Valent’ scum, same’s God, on’y better. ’N ’en he nail ’er. Nail ’er feet. Give ’er grub, big thick steak—’n give ’er free . ‘No check, so glad ’t las’ meet someone ’preciates my li’l steak.’ ’N first time ’n ’er life she got ’nough t’ eat—’n free. Did she go wild, boy oh boy oh boy, wi’ rings on ’er fingers, bells on ’er toes, ’n rainbows play’n ukulele—y’ hear me, y’ damn Nevada stringbean?—ukulele I said, ’n bass drum. ’N ’en ’e says: ‘Miss Hollis, hozzit we get mar’d?’ She dis laugh, Duke, ha-ha. ’N she foun’ out. S’prise, s’prise, check f’ steak, seven dollars ’n eighty cents. He twis’ it, Duke, ’at chain ’e had on ’er f’oat. Round ’er neck ’e twis’ it. No free steak, no tater, no pie, no pudd’n—nuff’n. Free day, count’m, one, two, three—free. ’At does it. All over. Ole ball game. They get mar’d, have wedd’n. I done my bes’, Chrisalminey, me’n Marge bofe. He got idea, buil’ at d’ive. Know some guy, got chain on ’m, sell ’em fish, got orster shells, big pile out back, down Maine Av’nue. I say, Val, I do it. I buil’ d’ive, haula goddam shells, buil’ it. I took six mont’. ’E cou’n get in place, cou’n live in it, ’t all. Lot good ’t did. Y’ see. ’E’s got ’er. Jus’ chain-twis’n bassid.”
    He passed out, and all the time in the drugstore I felt giddy, from buying stuff for her feet, using my own money, and knowing she didn’t want this man, but only the food he had. We started back, and pretty soon he asked where we were. I told him the District line, and he growled: “What I say t’ you? I been drunk again?”
    “So much and so silly I don’t just recollect. In fact, I wasn’t really listening.”
    “Tha’s it, Duke. Thanks.”
    “You practically said nothing at all.”
    “Pal, y’ all right.”
    I parked on the loop out front, but had hardly cut lights when Marge came running out, so relieved to get the Epsom, and to see who was back of the wheel, she could hardly talk. I handed the keys to Bill, who sat there fumbling them, and the boxes to her, warning her to watch the water, that she didn’t use it too hot. I said it two or three times: “It’s Epsom that draws out the swelling, the liquid there in the joint. Not heat. Lukewarm does