said Lillian: an example of what made her wish to die. “Where?” asked Ruth. Ruth was a student at Brooklyn College and her sister, Lillian, was in high school. “Blake Avenue. Kosher chickens.” “Recently?” “I was little.” “What about them specifically?” asked Ruth. It was 1960. Their parents were out and the girls would cook their own supper when they got around to it. Now they lay on their beds in the impinging spring dusk, both on their backs, shoes on the tasteful beige bedspreads. Frightened by her sister’s mood, Ruth stared at a plaster excrescence on the ceiling—an old gaslight—as its knobs and petals disappeared in the thickening dimness. “Their squashed feathers,” said Lillian. “The feathers could be broken. What would you call that thing that would break—you know, the spine of the feather?” “I don’t know. Is it cartilage?” “Between hair and cartilage.” Lying as she was, Ruth could not see Lilly, only the ceiling. She asked, “Did the chickens make you want to die when you saw them years ago, or is it only now when you think about them?”
