Chapter 20: One Question

The storm came in off the sound on Thursday night and sat on the garage roof.

Dean had gone home to bed with a cold.

I was in the office with the lamp off, listening to the tin over the bay drum like a hundred fingers.

Then I heard the drip.

It was in the room upstairs, the one over the garage, where Camille had slept since Monday.

I took a bucket and went up the outside stairs.

She opened the door before I knocked.

She wore the cafeteria sweatshirt and a pair of Dean's old track pants rolled at the ankle, and her hands were wrapped in clean white gauze.

"Roof," I said.

"I know. I've used my towels."

The ceiling over the bed was dark and swollen, and the water fell in a steady string into a saucepan.

I set the bucket under it and moved the saucepan away.

Neither of us said anything for a while.

"Your hands," I said.

"Blisters."

"From the broom."

"From the broom, and the mop, and Dean's wire brush." She held them up and almost smiled. "I don't recommend it."

"Sit down."

She sat on the edge of the bed.

I got the first aid box from the shelf by the door and knelt on the floorboards in front of her.

She went very still.

It was the same position I'd had on the ballroom marble, and we both knew it.

Neither of us said so.

I took her left hand and unwrapped the gauze.

The palm was raw across the base of the fingers, and two of the blisters had broken.

"Why didn't you tell Dean?"

"He'd have given me gloves, and I didn't want gloves." She watched my fingers. "I wanted to see if I could stand it."

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