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somehow.
    The smell of paint lingered in the air after the workmen’s departure, along with other smells Jane could not identify, probably turpentine or the liquid wax on the floors. But something else, too.
    “The smell of newness,” her mother said, sniffing the air, making her voice light and bright.
    “That’s right,” Jane said, forcing brightness into her own voice, wondering if her mother also was playacting, whether her mother could detect that other smell, the smell that persisted, rising to her nostrils on occasion, lurking under all the new smells. She was aware of the smellwhen she entered her bedroom, a soiled scent just barely there, making her pause and sniff tentatively, wrinkling her nose. The smell of something spoiled and decayed, an under-the-surface odor, hinting of vomit and things gone bad. Faint, yes, but unmistakable, not always there but coming and going, elusive sometimes, but other times strong, overpowering. She avoided looking at the spot near the door where she had encountered that puddle of vomit. To her surprise—and horror—she began to detect that elusive smell elsewhere, catching a drifting whiff when she was on the bus going to school, on the sidewalk in front of the Mall, in the classroom once, the smell suddenly stronger than schoolroom chalk. She would sniff cautiously and sometimes the smell evaporated, disappeared at once or lingered for a while, tantalizing in a horrible way. She wondered, a bit panicky, if the odor came from herself, if somehow it was being manufactured by her body, created out of her own horror at what had happened. She began to douse herself with cologne, applied creams and salves, sought out the strongest deodorants to rub into her armpits. She began to hold herself aloof from people, not letting anyone come too close, leaning over awkwardly when she kissed her mother and father good night. Sometimes, she caught her mother looking at her peculiarly and quickly turned away or left the room or began to jabber like a madwoman. And sometimes she caught her mother’s own face lost in deep thought or sadness and wanted to reach out to her, cry out, touch her or fling herself in her arms. But could not, could not, always holding back.
    And all the while Karen slept.
    It wasn’t only that foul odor, that terrible smell, but the house itself that began to bother Jane. She started fleeing the place, finding excuses not to be there. After visiting the hospital, she sometimes took the bus to downtownWickburg and wandered the Mall, killing time, going in and out of the stores, trying on jackets and skirts, drinking a 7-Up. She did not stay too long in the stores or linger on the plastic benches near the fountain, did not want to give the appearance of being a stray, homeless. At home, she quickly changed and roamed the neighborhood or simply hung out in the backyard. She didn’t seek out the company of the other girls on the street because she wasn’t in a mood for polite conversation or talk about clothes or makeup or movies and television. She wished she were a writer or a painter or a musician so that she could lose herself in some form of creativity, express the emotions that stirred inside her. What emotions? She felt as though she were fooling herself because she felt no emotions, really. Felt dead inside. Empty. Like a vessel waiting to be filled. Filled with what? She didn’t know.
    Her father called a family meeting one night. He did not issue special invitations but somehow let them all know that they should gather in the living room after supper. He faced them, standing self-consciously at the fireplace, frowning. Jane wondered whether he had a headache because he kept rubbing his forehead.
    “I’m going to make a speech,” he said. “A short one. But your mother and I feel that certain things should be said.”
    If her mother was in on the plan, then that meant the speech was really being made to an audience of two, her and her brother,