dawn to hear a cab drawing up in front of the house, a cab that held Mr. Palmer and a singing, whooping Joe. She could hardly bear to speak to Mr. Palmer after that. She would hurry past when she met him, turning away a flaming face, pretending to be absorbed in the reddening maple leaves, or the half-unrolled bolts of cloth in Small's window that splintered to, colored crystals through the tears that sprang to her eyes. Joe hadn't been like that again, but often he was detached, far away where she couldn't reach him, lost behind a dreamy, silly smile.
And she had learned what it was to have a husband who couldn't pay his bills, a husband she could never depend on for anything except that he would be charming. He was a butterfly, a whole flock of butterflies, with a pale-brown one perched on his upper lip, an azure one beneath his chin. And if that smothering dark butterfly net of worry nearly got him—off went the flock of butterflies into the sunshine. The net never caught him, but it caught whoever was near him. It caught Kate every time.
She knew he was borrowing from everyone that he could draw upon, and she was ashamed. She imagined a difference in the way people spoke to them—or did she imagine it? Joe was as cheery as ever, most of the time, still giving her surprises, sprays of gardenias when they were asked out to dine by people who had lent them: money, or bunches of white grapes and bottles of champagne when she had headaches from
