Day after day she pounded him with curses, saying that her mother looked down on him from Heaven and sent a curse, to which he laughed. He succeeded so well that they were almost in Montague Street before Anna stopped short. I’ve never had a homemade Thanksgiving meal like that. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. Anyhow, he did not sentimentalize her. The doll she had never owned, the cat and the dog that had never been hers: here they were, strangely incorporated in this sleeping man. Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall.
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