barren of cosmetics. But at the moment of seeing Mae she did an unusual thing. She looked at herself in the mirror and, spitting on her fingers, ruffed the straight hairs on her forehead into a matted mass. Then she took off her apron, rubbed her cheeks, and bit a sign of life into her colorless lips. Still she hesitated, bridling at giving Mae Welland the satisfaction of going to greet her. If only there were some excuse to go out into the yard. Tina whined.
Mrs. Bertrand told herself she had no interest in Mae, put her feet on Tina's tail and, as the dog ran yelping into the yard, followed her, calling "Tina, Tina, you come back here."
She stopped short at the fence and Mae glanced up. "Why Mae Welland, when did you get back?"
Mae brushed a lock from her forehead and smiled. Alma Bertrand, nee Beck, was as nosy as ever.
"Oh," she said in her girlish high voice, "we got in late last night." Alma's long thin nose still was as red around the nostrils as ever, as though just blown. Probably, thought Mae, from sticking it in others' affairs.
Mrs. Bertrand planted long elbows on the fence as if to nail Mae who started to leave. "Well, well, well, it's a long time, about fifteen years, isn't it?" adding another year to Mae's age since her own did not matter. "And how," she went on, teeth protruding from her upper lip ready to gnaw at the news, "is Mr. Claudel?"
A faint sigh escaped Mae, unnoticed by Mrs. Bertrand. The scraping and pinching poverty of the years since Charles disappeared bloomed into a life of adventure in contrast to the changeless cicada hum of existence on Twelfth Street. In Denver, when Lucy lay ill and undernourished, remembrance of the good kitchens in her home town of Congress made her forget the dry existence. Seeing Alma Bertrand she felt panic at having brought Lucy into the strangulating presence of Mabel from whom heavens only knew how long it would take to escape. Her grey eyes expressionless, she noted the avid glitter in Alma's slits. It would take more than Alma Bertrand to get her down.
"I don't know," she replied lightly, and went into the house.
Mrs. Bertrand, beaten, stared after her. A shameless woman, unashamed that her husband had abandoned her.
For the following two days there was no sign of Mae's daughter.
Vida found countless reasons for going in and out of her home
