She was like the air I breathed. She was probably there when I was born. BETsi looked like a vacuum cleaner, bless her. She had long carpeted arms, and a carpeted top with loops of wool like hair. She was huggable, vaguely. I don’t remember hugging her much. I do remember working into that wool all kinds of unsuitable substances—spit, ice cream, dirt from the pots of basil. My mother talked to BETsi about my behaviour. Mostly I remember my mother as a freckled and orange blur, always desperate to be moving, but sometimes she stayed still long enough for me to look at her. “This is Booker, BETsi,” my mother said at dictation speed. “You must stay clean, BETsi.” She thought BETsi was stupid. She was the one who sounded like a robot. “Please repeat.” “I must stay clean,” BETsi replied. BETsi sounded bright, alert, smooth-talking, with a built-in smile in the voice.
