Goring drove the metal cart down the ramp and I dialed the light off just as she threw open the door to the basement. She was in a foul mood. “Damn this place and these stupid kids!” she yelled. I got the feeling that she viewed the basement, on occasion, as a place where her deepest frustrations could be expressed in peace. It was a place where she could scream and no one would hear her. She banged the cart loudly into one of the metal shelves, knocking cans onto the floor. One of them bounced, then rolled in my general direction. There was nothing I could do but stand in the corner of the darkened bomb shelter and hope she didn’t feel compelled to pick up the can. She picked up all the cans but the one, which had rolled all the way to the bomb shelter door. Mrs. Goring was angrily muttering half-formed words as she set each can back on the shelf. I’d cleaned up the room and put my things in my backpack, and I knew the room well enough to move with only the sliver of light from the basement leaking in.
