I went back to Janie. She just looked up at me. She wasn’t scared. I told her, “I got to go to the john.”

“Oh,” she said. “Why’n’t you say so?”

Suddenly I grunted and grabbed my guts. The feeling I had I can’t begin to talk about. I acted as if it was a pain, but it wasn’t. It was like nothing else that ever happened to me before.

“Okay,” Janie said. “Go on back to bed.”

“But I got to—”

“You got to what?”

“Nothing.” It was true. I didn’t have to go no place.

“Next time tell me right away. I don’t mind.”

I didn’t say anything. I went back to my blanket.

“That’s all?” said Stern. I lay on the couch and looked up at the gray ceiling. He asked, “How old are you?”

“Fifteen,” I said dreamily. He waited until, for me, the gray ceiling acquired walls and a floor, a rug and lamps and a desk and a chair with Stern in it. I sat up and held my head a second, and then I looked at him. He was fooling with his pipe and looking at me. “What did you do to me?”

“I told you. I don’t do anything here. You do it.”

“You hypnotized me.”

“I did not.” His voice was quiet but he really meant it.

“What was all that then? It was…it was like it was happening for real all over again.”

“Feel anything?”

“Everything.” I shuddered. “Every damn thing. What was it?”

“Anyone doing it feels better afterward. You can go over it all again now any time you want to, and every time you do, the hurt in it will be less. You’ll see.”

It was the first thing to amaze me in years. I chewed on it and then asked, “If I did it by myself, how come it never happened before?”

“It needs someone to listen.”

“Listen? Was I talking?”

“A blue streak.”

“Everything that happened?”

“How can I know? I wasn’t there. You were.”

“You don’t believe it happened, do you? Those disappearing kids and the footstool and all?”

He shrugged. “I’m not in the business of believing or not believing. Was it real to you?”

“Oh, hell, yes!”

“Well, then, that’s all that matters. Is that where you live, with those people?”

I bit off a fingernail that had been bothering me. “Not for a long time. Not since Baby was three.” I looked at him. “You remind me of Lone.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. No, you don’t,” I added suddenly. “I don’t know what made me say that.” I lay down abruptly.

The ceiling was gray and the lamps were dim. I heard the pipestem click against his teeth. I lay there for a long time.

“Nothing happens,” I told him.

“What did you expect to happen?”

“Like before.”

“There’s something there that wants out. Just let it come.”

It was as if there was a revolving drum in my head, and on it were photographed the places and things and people I was after. And it was as if the drum was spinning very fast, so fast I couldn’t tell one picture from another. I made it stop, and it stopped at a blank segment. I spun it again, and stopped it again.

“Nothing happens,” I said.

“Baby is three,” he repeated.

“Oh,” I said. “That.” I closed my eyes.

That might be it. Might, sight, night, light. I might have the sight of a light in the night. Maybe the baby. Maybe the sight of the baby at night because of the light…

There was night after night when I lay on that blanket and a lot of nights I didn’t. Something was going on all the time in Lone’s house. Sometimes I slept in the daytime. I guess the only time everybody slept at once was when someone was sick, like me the first time I arrived there. It was always sort of dark in the room, the same night and day, the fire going, the two old bulbs hanging yellow by their wires from the battery. When they got too dim, Janie fixed the battery and they got bright again.

Janie did everything that needed doing, whatever no one else felt like doing. Everybody else did things, too. Lone was out a lot. Sometimes he used the twins to help him, but you never missed them, because they’d be here and gone and back again bing! like that. And Baby, he just stayed in his bassinet.

I did things myself. I cut wood for the fire and I put up more shelves, and then I’d go swimming with Janie and the twins sometimes. And I talked to Lone. I didn’t do a thing that the others couldn’t do, but they all did things I couldn’t do. I was mad, mad all the time about that. But I wouldn’t of known what to do with myself if I wasn’t mad all the time about something or other. It didn’t keep us from bleshing. Bleshing, that was Janie’s word. She said Baby told it to her. She said it meant everyone all together being something, even if they all did different things. Two arms, two legs, one body, one head, all working together, although a head can’t walk and arms can’t think. Lone said maybe it was a mixture of “blending” and “meshing,” but I don’t think he believed that himself. It was a lot more than that.

Baby talked all the time. He was like a broadcasting station that runs twenty-four hours a day, and you can get what it’s sending any time you tune in, but it’ll keep sending whether you tune in or not. When I say he talked, I don’t mean exactly that. He semaphored mostly. You’d think those wandering, vague movements of his hands and arms and legs and head were meaningless, but they weren’t. It was semaphore, only instead of a symbol for a sound, or such like, the movements were whole thoughts.

I mean, spread the left hand and shake the right high up, and thump with the left heel, and it means, “Anyone who thinks a starling is a pest just don’t know anything about how a starling thinks,” or something like that.

Lone couldn’t read the stuff and neither could I. The twins could, but they didn’t give a damn. Janie used to watch him all the time. He always knew what you meant if you wanted to ask him something, and he’d tell Janie and she’d say what it was. Part of it, anyway. Nobody could get it all, not even Janie. Lone once told me that all babies know that semaphore. But when nobody receives it, they quit doing it and pretty soon they forget. They almost forget. There’s always some left. That’s why certain gestures are funny the world over, and certain others make you mad. But like everything else Lone said, I don’t know whether he believed it or not.

All I know is Janie would sit there and paint her pictures and watch Baby, and sometimes she’d burst out laughing, and sometimes she’d get the twins and make them watch and they’d laugh, too, or they’d wait till he was finished what he was saying and then they’d creep off to a corner and whisper to each other about it. Baby never grew any. Janie did, and the twins, and so did I, but not Baby. He just lay there.

Janie kept his stomach full and cleaned him up every two or three days. He didn’t cry and he didn’t make any trouble. No one ever went near him.

Janie showed every picture she painted to Baby, before she cleaned the boards and painted new ones. She had to clean them because she only had three of them. It was a good thing, too, because I’d hate to think what that place would of been like if she’d kept them all; she did four or five a day. Lone and the twins were kept hopping getting turpentine for her. She could shift the paints back into the little pots on her easel without any trouble, just by looking at the picture one color at a time, but turps was something else again. She told me that Baby remembered all her pictures and that’s why she didn’t have to keep them. They were all pictures of machines and gear-trains and mechanical linkages and what looked like electric circuits and things like that. I never thought too much about them.