Mr. Taylor was the only man in our house that night. I gave him instructions to admit no callers, and when he said he thought he should ask Katherine about it, I assured him that was not necessary. And I asked him if he could come to my room after dinner and fix a dresser drawer that had been sticking. I had expected him to say it might be more convenient for him to look at in the morning during my lessons, but instead he looked at me solemnly and agreed.

Katherine wore a new dress at dinner. It was a color that people shouldn't have to look at while they were eating, and it had short sleeves that were squeezing red circles around the pale flesh of her upper arms.

I was wearing black.

After dinner I went to my room and sat for a few minutes, hoping Frances would appear. When I realized I would not be seeing her, I went to the dresser and pulled out the drawer I kept my underwear in. I took out a pair of black panties and put them in a space between the drawer and the side of the dresser. I pushed the drawer in until it jammed. Then I picked up my flute and practiced until I heard a gentle knock at the door.

Mr. Taylor had brought a toolbox with him. Leaving the bedroom door open, he went to the dresser and put the box on the floor. I showed him which drawer was stuck, and I stood close to him as he carefully pulled on it. It sprang open immediately, and he removed it, reaching in and lifting out the panties. I had expected him to blush, but he said calmly, "I remember you when you were an infant, Clare. I was an old man even then."

He opened the toolbox and looked at the neatly arranged, meticulously clean tools, which smelled faintly of oil. It was the first time I had seen a look of fondness on his face. He found a stick of waxlike lubricant, which rubbed on the runners of the drawer.

"It should be all right now", he said.

"What was I like as a child?" I asked him.

"I believe you often did unwelcome things."

"Was I naughty, would you say?"

"I would say you had no idea of what was naughty and what was not."

He was right. I remembered being surprised at how easily everyone accepted the categories of good and bad. Most things had seemed not important enough for such classifications. Probably Mr. Taylor thought it a bad thing to be alone with a young woman in her room. Yet soon he would be back in the basement with his wife, and they would sit polishing tarnished silverware, silently judging those who brought life to the house.