INTERLUDESaturday, October 24, 1931
Lucy dropped to the floor of her Gramma’s room like a snowflake hitting a griddle—first all tiny and flapping and white, and then big again, her nightgown hem wide and drifting around her thin calves.
And the pretty-yet-ugly golden thing that had been a greenish glint on Lucy’s wing (My wing! Wait’ll that Veenie Nemmitz sees this!) uncoiled from around her right hand before it tightly wound itself into a spring-tight ring, the bug head snugged close to the snake head, and went to sleep in her palm. Lucy prodded it with a small blunt fingertip, and the golden ring jerked slightly, like Daddy did sometimes when Lucy tried to make him wake up on a Saturday morning, and he pushed her away with his shoulder without moving anything else, or opening his eyes.
