THE HUNDRED-AND-THIRTY-SEVENTH PAGE

Trembling with exhaustion or something I couldn’t precisely describe, I went upstairs and lay on the living room couch. A chill ran through my body, but, Hell, it was winter, wasn’t it? That’s what happens when it gets cold. But I was also sweating.

The dog whimpered in an upper register of the baritone.

Outside, I heard a noise not unlike a falling branch, and then another. I jumped up from the couch, tripping over the dog, and ran to the door. Opening it a crack, I saw that a couple of falling branches had, indeed, made the sound. But what if they had fallen on a power line? Flashlight. Need flashlight. Where did I put the candles? Hate candles. Make fire. Fire endangers books. I closed the door and ransacked the drawers for candle stubs, batteries--found neither. I found the flashlight, lodged between a Dawn Powell and a J.R. Ackerley, under the upstairs bed. The batteries were as dead as Powell and Ackerley.

I left the dog to guard the house while I bought batteries and a bunch of candles. It was difficult to find a candle that didn’t stink. Scented gardens for the blind, not for candles. When I got back to the house, the dog apparently was not well. He must have been a nervous wreck. I cleaned up the mess. The dark house got even darker as the sun set.