There was nothing alive about her but her eyes. They were greedy for understanding. “Jaime,” she said, “put that poker down.” It was a sensible thing to say. Jaime didn’t expect it. He lowered his arm and let the poker slip from his fingers to the floor. “You’ve made such a mess,” she added. “Look at that broken glass! You might have cut yourself … or put out an eye!” Incredibly, she stooped to the floor and began to gather up splinters of broken glass. “Go out in the kitchen,” she said, “and get a dustpan.” Jaime knelt beside her. “Greta, didn’t you hear what I said?” he demanded. “I heard when I came in. I saw the lights come on in the roof and I thought it might be you. I came as fast as I could … and found you smashing glasses …” He caught her by the wrist and held fast. “Greta, don’t you believe me?” There was fear in her eyes, and pain. Tears were an instant away. Belligerently she said: “There must be a broom closet in this freak house … Jaime, you’re hurting my arm!”
