~Dorothea Lange Caro peered out at the rain, the kind of steady stream that showed no sign of letting up. She had awakened to the spattering on the roof during the night, then heard an irritating plunk on the tiles in the bedroom hallway. Gwen had forgotten to mention a leak. By morning, the pail Caro had put in place was a quarter full. The grim grayness that accompanied the wet weather also produced an indolence in her that she couldn’t shake. Instead of working she ate snacks and watched TV until late afternoon, when she finally sat down to write. Because it was smaller than the other bedrooms, Caro preferred the intimacy of her space in the guest room. Gwen had covered the walls with fabric of dark carmine, and hung matching triple panels on the windows. Caro felt cushioned by the heavy décor, hidden to the point of invisibility. Covered windows and no mirrors—she’d stored the dresser mirror in the closet. Nothing in the room reflected her image. She picked up her favorite pen, a Montblanc fountain pen, whose design honored Virginia Woolf.
