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20 JOANNA RUOCCO There is dust in the air. There are nits in the air. There is dirt on the windows. The light is dim. It is dirty, dim light. The children think my hair is pale, long and pale, darkened by the dirty, dim light. They think my face is just a sliver in the light. I crowd the children from the table. I eat cake after cake. The cakes are not good. They make a hard lump in my belly. I can feel the lump through the dress. I am very slim. I am very straight and very slim, but now there is a lump, an ugly, bad lump. I squeeze the lump. I twist the lump. Lift up your shirt, I say to Spot. He lifts up his shirt. I press his belly. I feel a hard lump. Spot grunts. It is the cakes. The cakes are not good. The cook scraped the paper from the walls to mix with the wheat. There is dye on the paper. There is glue on the paper. There is plaster on the paper and white hairs from the lath. The cook has damaged the walls. Without the paper, plaster cracks. It crumbles. The cook has made holes in the walls. The plaster 9 21 ANOTHER GOVERNESS spills on the floor. The cook tracks plaster through the house. She has tracked plaster through the nursery. I see white powder on the carpet. I see white powder on the cakes. I see hairs in the powder. I take the tray of cakes and walk to the window. No, says Tamworth. No. No. She crawls behind me too slowly. I reach the window. I strike the dim glass with the tray. The glass cracks. Light comes through the crack. I make a hole in the glass with the corner of the tray. Light comes through the hole. I push a cake through the hole, but the cake crumbles. Crumbs stick to the glass. I push the cake harder. Blood runs on the glass. I leave the one cake smashed in the window. I say, There is glass in the cakes. I laugh. Tamworth lies facedown on the carpet, arms reaching toward the window. I walk around Tamworth. I put the tray on the table. Spot leans forward. He shoves a cake in his mouth. His shirt is pushed up. He smiles with the cake in his mouth. He rests his hand on his belly. I move his hand. While he chews, I press the lump in his belly. It is the size of an apple. The apple moves up and down as he chews. Who gave you the apple? I say. My hand leaves a brown stain on the lump on Spot’s belly. It is very like an apple. Here is your apple, I say to Tamworth. I hold Spot’s arms. He does not move. Tamworth crawls toward us. She rises to her knees. She puts her mouth on Spot’s lump. She opens her mouth on the lump. She roots in Spot’s belly for the apple. Spot grunts, but he does not move. He has little red bumps on his arms. He has white hairs on his cheeks. His skin is wet. It smells bad. I hold him against the dress. His sweat softens the stains on my dress. ...

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