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mile corridor of passive malfunction. The May night blew cold on
Miss Wilmott's brow. Struggling through the rocky, cotton-lined
resistance in her mouth, she said, "Well, well. And what did you do?"
What a question, Miss Wilmott! Where do you come off to ask
such a question?
"She's not so bad, Ethel. You get used to a certain person, and
then you take her faults with her better parts. Flags." Indeed there
were, on stores. "Decoration Day."
"When May is gone, of all the year the pleasant time is past,"
said Miss Wilmott.
"I like June," said Dr. Hobbie. "I was born in June. I graduated
in June. I got married in June. Of course, Suzanne ran off to Consolo
last June. Every month has its good and bad times."
They were outside the drugstore. He ran in, and she waited
alone in the car, her head back on the seat, aching.
"I don't have my purse," she said when he came back.
"Forget it," he said, and put the package in her lap. "They give
it to me cut-rate. I'll stick you next time."
Oh stick me now. Never, never. Her great head leaned against
his shoulder and without warning, large tears bloomed and fell in
her face. "Oh dear," she said.
Dr. Hobbie took his hands off the steering wheel and put them
around her. "That's all right, Ethel. Just what you're supposed to do
after an operation. You're going to be o.k."
She was not going to be o.k. The Ndembu's troubles left them
when their teeth were pulled; not hers. The Ndembu danced to
celebrate; Dr. Hobbie had not taught her the twist.
