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208 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1988
The gunman was behind the cashier’s counter and Jerry Knoth was just getting down, on his hands and knees, to lie on the floor, on his stomach, as the gunman had ordered him to do, and Mrs. Ingram called out loudly, “What are you doing? What is this?” - or something similar; she wouldn’t remember, afterward, her exact words; only that they were quick, and loud, pushy angry words of a kind she’d never heard herself say before, in any public place. It was like she’d gone back decades to when the children were young, and the way you spoke to them half the time was scolding, disciplining , since half the time they were getting into trouble and that was the only way they could be made to listen, to take what you said seriously.
Judith Lambert was dying at last. She had come home from the Medical Center for the fifth and final time in how many months? – eighteen? – since her cancer was first diagnosed. But the Institute party was scheduled for that night, the handwritten invitations sent out weeks ago, so they were at the party, Judith’s many friends and a number of her colleagues from the Bedminster Choir College, where Judith had taught voice for fifteen years, how sad they were saying, how tragic, she is such a young woman, - forty-seven and looks ten years younger despite the chemotherapy – gathered about the long candlelit table where plates of hors d’oeuvres were set amidst coolly fragrant spring flowers, daffodils, jonquils, hyacinth, taking up Swedish meatballs on toothpicks, jumbo shrimp dipped in Mexicali hot sauce (Take care, the director’s wife warns, - that sauce is hot), how lovely everything looks tonight, and this wine, this is superb wine, German, is it? and how delicious the stuffed mushrooms, did you make those yourself, Isabel?
At the edge of my father’s property, in an abandoned corncrib, there lives a strange creature – a goat-child – a girl – my age – with no name that we know – and no mother or father or companions. She has a long narrow head and immense slanted eyes, albino-pale, and an expression that seems to be perpetually startled.
. . .
Her nose, like her ears, is goatish: snubbed and flat and with wide nostrils. But her eyes are human eyes. Thickly lashed and beautiful.
. . .
One day I slipped away from the house to bring her a piece of my birthday cake (angel food with pink frosting and a sprinkling of silver “stars”) – I left it wrapped in a napkin near the corncrib but as far as I knew she never approached it: she is very shy by daylight.
. . .
Years pass and the goat-girl continues to live in the old corncrib at the edge of our property. No one speaks of her – no one wonders at the fact that she has grown very little since she came to live with us.