There was a clean silence that reached somewhere deep inside him the moment he stepped outside and began walking toward the garage. His footfalls were hushed, his breath plumed out ahead of him in visible silence, there was the normal hush of late afternoon, the whispering minutes before twilight, intensified now by the cushion of snow, deepened, the gentle rhythmic sound of skid chains, m.u.f.fled. I'll have to put chains on the truck, he thought.

The thought came into his mind with a suddenness that was totally surprising because it carried with it the idea of going home; if he was planning to put chains on the truck, then he was planning to use the truck, to go someplace with it, and the only place he would take the truck would be home to Carey. He knew that was what he ought to do, put chains on the truck, and then call his mother and tell her he was leaving the city, probably be home this evening sometime, that was the thing to do. But there were also a few other things he knew he should do, or at least felt he ought to do, and suddenly everything seemed mixed up, suddenly the silence of the city was irritating to him rather than soothing. He knew he should call his mother and then head for home, and he also knew he should go to the police station and talk to that detective with the deaf-and-dumb wife, but he also knew he should meet Amelia at four-thirty because Amelia was the most beautiful woman he had ever known in his life and he had the feeling he should not allow her to get away from him, colored or otherwise. It still bothered him that she was colored, but not as much as it had bothered him earlier. He thought suddenly of Molly and how she had become beautiful all at once at two o'clock last night, but that was something different, that wasn't the way he felt about Amelia, that was something entirely different. Amelia really was beautiful, everything about her was beautiful - the way she looked, and the soft way she had of speaking, and that fine bright quickness about her, and the way she kissed, she really was a beautiful girl. His mother certainly wouldn't be able to kid about her the way she had kidded about all the ugly ducklings he took out in Carey, not by a long shot. It troubled him that he would be seeing Amelia when he knew he should be going home to his mother. After all, somebody had to take care of her now that his father was dead. But at the same time he really did want to see Amelia, to know Amelia, and this frightened him because at some point last night when he was in bed with Molly he had begun to think that he would really like to know her, too, and not just as somebody to take to bed, some ugly girl to take to bed, but as a beautiful person secret and private inside this very plain outside sh.e.l.l. That was when he supposed he began to get angry with her, that was when he supposed the argument started.

He did not want an argument to start with Amelia, and yet he had the feeling that if he met her later on he would argue with her, too, and all because he knew he should be home in Carey taking care of his mother and not getting involved with pretty girls in the city, especially pretty girls who were colored. He didn't see how he could get involved with a colored girl. h.e.l.l, he wouldn't even have asked her to take the afternoon off if he'd thought there was the slightest possibility of getting involved with someone who was colored. But then he hadn't thought he'd get involved with anyone as ugly as Molly, either, until he found himself really wondering about her and looking at her as if she was beautiful, and really believing she was beautiful, that was what had caused all the trouble.

So the thing he should do, he supposed, was to go to the police and tell them about Molly, and then go home to Carey. No, that wouldn't exactly work, either. Going to the police would keep him away from Amelia, would keep him from getting involved with her, or of getting angry with her the way he'd got angry with Molly, but it would also keep him away from his mother in Carey, well, maybe that wouldn't be so bad. He was suddenly very confused.

Look, he told himself, I'd better Look, I think the police Well, look, let me put the chains on the truck for now. Let me do that, and I'll work out the rest.

I mean, what the h.e.l.l, she's sitting all the way up there, somebody's got to take care of her.

Buddy's just a kid.

Somebody's got to take care of her.

The garage attendant was a short fellow with curly black hair and very white teeth. He was wearing an old World War II flight jacket, the same jacket he'd been wearing the other day when Roger pulled in with the truck loaded.

"Hey," he said, "how you doing?"

"Fine," Roger said. "I just thought I'd stop by to put my chains on. I wasn't expecting this kind of snow."

"Something, huh?" the attendant said. "You could freeze your a.s.s off in this city."

"It gets a lot colder up where I live," Roger said.

"Yeah, where you live?" the attendant asked, grinning. "Siberia? Or Lower Slobovia, which?"

Roger didn't know where Lower Slobovia was, so he just said, "Well, it gets pretty cold up there, believe me."

"I see you got rid of all your stuff," the attendant said.

"Yes. I sold it all yesterday."

"That's good, huh?"

"Yes, that's fine," Roger said.

"Late last night?" the attendant said.

"What?"

"That when you sold it?"

"No. No," Roger said. He stared at the attendant, puzzled. "I don't think I get you."

"The benches and stuff, the bowls. You know?"

"Yes?"

"Did you sell them late last night?"

"No. I sold the last of them yesterday afternoon sometime. Downtown."

"Oh."

"Why?"

"Oh, nothing," the attendant said. "Only I must've been gone when you came back, and the night man said you took the truck out again later."

"He did?"

"Yeah. He only told me about it because he wasn't sure he should have let it go out, you know, so he was just checking. To make sure he didn't pull a b.o.n.e.r. You know?"

"Mmm," Roger said.

"That was pretty late."

"Yes."

"Three o'clock in the morning." The attendant grinned. His teeth were very white. "Or early, depending how you look at it, huh? Three o'clock could be very early."

"It was early," Roger said. "I had to carry some stuff."

"More of that wood stuff, huh?"

"No," Roger said quickly. "I . . ." He paused. "A man offered me a job. Yesterday afternoon, while I was downtown."

"Oh? Yeah?"

"Hauling some vegetables for him. From the market."

"Hey, that's a lucky break, huh?" the attendant said.

"Yes, I had to take them over the bridge to the other side of the river. Over there. I had to pick them up at the market."

"Downtown, huh?"

"Yes."

"Where? Down near c.u.mmings?"

"What?"

"c.u.mmings Street? The market down there?"

"Yes, the market."

"Sure, they open very early," the attendant said.

"Yes, I had to be there at three-thirty to make the pickup. And then I had to drive all way to the bridge and across the river."

"All the way to Lower Slobovia, huh?" the attendant said, and laughed. "Well, you're a hard worker, that's good. I admire guys who are willing to work to earn a buck. Christ knows I work hard enough. Your truck's over there near that '62 Caddy. You want a hand with the chains?"

"No, I think I can manage. Thanks."

"Don't mention it. You want the keys?"

"I don't know. How much s.p.a.ce have I got?"

"I think you can get them on without moving it. But if you need the keys, they're right here on the board."

"Okay," Roger said, and walked to where the truck was parked at the far end of the garage. He glanced at the Cadillac alongside it, and then lowered the tailgate and climbed up into the back. His chains were in the right-hand forward corner of the truck, up near the cab, wrapped in burlap. He always dried them carefully each time he took them off, and then wrapped them in burlap so they wouldn't rust. He picked up the chains and was heading for the rear of the truck again when he saw the stain.

The stain was no larger than a half-dollar, circular, with a sawtooth edge and tiny spatters radiating from the rim.

That must've been from her nose, he thought. He climbed down from the truck and dropped the chains near the left rear wheel, and then looked around the garage and saw a hose attached to a faucet, and alongside that a can. He glanced toward the front of the garage to check if the attendant was anywhere in sight. He walked to the hose and picked up the can and filled it about a quarter full, and then went back to the truck again. He put the can down near the tailgate. From under the front seat he took an old soiled rag, and he carried that with him to the back of the truck again, where he dipped it into the can of water.

He was very lucky. The blood had dripped onto one of the metal strips running the length of the truck, and had not fallen on the wooden floor of the body. It might have been difficult to remove a bloodstain from a wooden floor. Instead, he wiped the blood off the metal in as long as it took him to pa.s.s the wet cloth over it.

He rinsed the cloth out several times until it was clean. The water in the can showed hardly any discoloration, hardly any trace of red or even pink. He poured the water down the open drain near the hose attachment, and rinsed the can out several times.

He went back to the truck and put on the chains.

She was waiting for him outside the drugstore.

She spotted him as he turned the corner, and waved immediately and came running up to him.

"Hi," she said, and looped her arm through his. "You're late."

"I haven't got a watch," he said.

"Well, you're not too late, it's only about twenty to. Where were you?"

"Putting chains on my truck."

"Fine thing. Guy'd rather put chains on his truck than be with me."

"No, I'd rather be with you, Amelia."

"There are times, you know," she said, smiling, "when I think you have absolutely no sense of humor."

"None at all," he said, and returned her smile.

"So look at me," she said.I He looked at her.

"Well?"

"You changed your coat."

"This is my best coat. I only wear it on very special occasions. The collar is genuine fitch."

"What's fitch?"

"An animal."

"I know that, but-"

"You've never heard of rat fitch?"

"No."

"It's a close relative to rat fink. There are millions of rat finks in this city, but only very few rat fitches. One of them voluntarily donated his life to make a collar for my coat. Stunning, isn't it?"

"Stunning."

"Also, look." She unb.u.t.toned the coat and held it open, her arms widespread. She was wearing a black skirt and a V-necked black sweater cut very low over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. A string of tiny pearls circled her throat, startling white against her dark skin. "Very s.e.xy number, huh?" she said.

"Very s.e.xy."

"Also," she said, and winked, "black bra underneath. Men like black bras, huh?"

"Yes."

"Now, if you don't mind, I'll close the coat before I freeze everything I own, you don't mind, huh?" She closed the coat and b.u.t.toned it. "Brrrr, my hands are freezing." She put her left hand into the pocket of her coat, and then entwined the fingers of her right hand in his, and put both their hands into the pocket of his coat. "There," she said, "nice and cozy and warm, I can't stop talking, what the h.e.l.l is it about you?"

"I'm a good listener," he said, "that's what it is."

"Yeah, how come?"

"In my house, I listen all the time."

"To who?"

"My mother."

"Mmm, mothers, don't talk about mothers. You should hear the lecture I got this afternoon."

"About what?"

"About you, what do you think?"

"Why?"

"Man, you de white man. You Mr. Charlie." Amelia giggled.

"Is that what Mr. Charlie is?"