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    â€œWhen your father and I were young, we were beaus. Maybe you don’t remember.”
    Paulette began to draw herself together.
    â€œYour father ran off, too. Did I tell you? He was my beau in those olden days.”
    Paulette leaned close to my mother. She tried to round up the loose photographs from my mother’s fumbling fingers.
    â€œDon’t get upset, dear,” she said. “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”
    She never looked at me again. After putting a kiss on the top of my mother’s head, Paulette turned away and hobbled through the little front room, pulled her long coat from the tree by the door, and left. She was wearing lavender cloth slippers with a kind of hard rubber sole. I could see a bit of the white flesh of her legs below her coat because her stockings had fallen around her ankles.
    â€œYou shouldn’t let that old bag bother you so much,” I said.
    â€œShe doesn’t bother me. She’s my friend.”
    â€œYou keep an eye on her when she’s here?”
    â€œShe wouldn’t take anything. She doesn’t need anything. Her son takes care of her.”
    We fell into a silence. I let my eye wander around the kitchen. Except for a general griminess, the place looked tidy enough. Just the few dishes were out, and I couldn’t offhand see any pressing thing that needed to be done.
    â€œDid you want something, Peter?”
    â€œI guess— I only came to see how you were doing.”
    â€œI mean do you want something to eat?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou should let your mother fix you something to eat.”
    â€œI should, but I can’t take anything right now.”
    I tried hard to see any sign in her expression of the directness of her speech, but she could not meet my eye. I hoped that she would not make any mention of the Easter holiday that would fall the next day.
    â€œEileen got a better job,” she said. “A raise.”
    â€œIt’s good that she’s working,” I said.
    â€œShe should be home with the boy.”
    I made no answer, and as the silence took root, I could see that she was getting lost. She seemed to be staring deeply at the palms of her hands, limp on the table. Except for her breathing and the bit of palsied shaking it made in her shoulders, there was nothing happening in the little kitchen. The measured ticking of the tall clock in the front room came faintly to my ears, vague enough to ignore for a while. It struck me how unbearable it must be to have lived your whole life and to have nothing to show. Then the electric icebox ticked on and the motor began to hum, and I pulled myself to alertness again.
    I stood up and looked down at her. Then I pulled out the folded wad of dough from my pocket and peeled off enough bills to make a hundred. These I placed on the table, near enough to brush against her fingers. I hoped Paulette would not return before my mother had the chance to squirrel away the money.
    Of course it was all on me. The boy was gone, and I had at least in part driven him away. Eileen had a beau—someone from outside the family—why shouldn’t she? It was clear that I wasn’t any good to her. And my mother? There wasn’t anything to prevent me from showing her a little tender feeling, a little understanding. She was alone, and I was her only living child. But I could not bring myself to do it. I could not let myself be the man I knew I ought to be.
    Lately I had felt my heart seem to labor in my chest. It seemed to flutter in a slow spasm now and again, even when I was sitting in my chair on the escape, doing nothing. I thought it might stop beating altogether, and I wondered how I’d feel if I knew with certainty that my life was slipping away. I wondered what I’d want to do then, how I’d wish I had lived. There was another thought that formed itself dimly, and I tried to push it back to the dark part of my mind: My life was slipping