trace of perfume always lulled him as if it were a tranquilizer; each
time he happily drifted back into his dreams.
He slept in sweatpants and a T-shirt, because he had a hard time finding
pajamas large enough and because he was too modest to sleep in the nude
or even in his underwear. Being unclothed embarrassed Candy, even when
no one was around to see him.
All of that long Thursday afternoon, hard winter sun reeled the world
outside, but little got past the flower-patterned shades and
rose-colored drapes that guarded the two window The few times he woke
and blinked at the shadows, Candy saw only the pearl-gray glimmer of the
dresser mirror and glint from the silver-framed photographs on the night
stand Drugged by sleep and by the freshly applied perfume on the
handkerchief, he could easily imagine that his beloved mother was in her
rocking chair, watching over him, and he felt safe. He came fully awake
shortly before sunset and lay for a while with his hands folded behind
his head, staring up at the underside of the canopy that arched over the
four-poster; he could not see it, but he knew it was there, and in his
mind could conjure up a vivid image of the fabric’s rosebud patter. For
a while he thought about his mother, about the best time of his life,
now all gone, and then he thought about the girl, the boy, and the woman
he had killed last night. He tried to recall the taste of their blood,
but that memory was not as intense as those involving his mother.
After a while he switched on a bedside lamp and looked around at the
comfortably familiar room: rosebud wallpaper; rosebud bedspread; rosebud
blinds; rose-colored drapes and carpets; dark mahogany bed, dresser, and
highboy. Two afghans-one green like the leaves of a rose, one the shade
of the petals-were draped over the arms of the rocking chair.
He went into the adjoining bathroom, locked and tested the door. The
only light came from the fluorescent panels in the soffit, over the
sink, for he had long ago lathered black paint on the small high window.
He studied his face in the mirror for a moment because he liked the way
he looked. He could see his mother in his face. He had her blond hair,
so pale it was almost white, and her sea-blue eyes. His face was all
hard planes and strong features, with none of her beauty or gentleness,
though his full mouth was as generous as hers.
As he undressed, he avoided looking down at himself. He was proud of
his powerful shoulders and arms, his broad chest, and his muscular legs,
but even catching a glimpse of the sex thing made him feel dirty and
mildly ill. He sat on the toilet to make water, so he wouldn’t have to
touch himself. During his shower, when he soaped his crotch, he first
pulled on a mitten that he had sewn from a pair of washcloths, so the
flesh of his hand would not have to touch the wicked flesh below.
When he had dried off and dressed-athletic socks, running shoes, dark
gray cords, black shirt-he hesitantly left the reliable shelter of his
mother’s old room. Night had fallen, and the upstairs hall was poorly
lit by two low-wattage bulbs in a ceiling fixture that was coated with
gray dust and missing half its pendant crystals. To his left was the
head of the staircase. To his right were his sisters’ room, his old
room, and the other bath, the doors to which stood open; no lights were
on back there. The oak floor creaked, and the threadbare runner did
little to soften his footsteps. He sometimes thought he should give the
rest of the house a thorough cleaning, maybe even spring for some new
carpeting and fresh paint; however, though he kept his mother’s room
spotless and in good repair, he was not motivated to spend time or money
on the rest of the house, and his sisters had little interest in-or
talent for homemaking.
A flurry of soft footfalls alerted him to the approach of the cats, and