She married my Dad in a small ceremony down at City Hall. Footman or some such. “Why can’t you tell people that you are what you are? Why all the secrecy?” She looked beyond the farmhouse. She found pieces of it on the blacktop near the green dumpster, amazingly small pieces considering the fabric’s original heft. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. That there would eventually be a lover Ruth knew; and she waited his appearance upon the scene, waited with an impatience which was both personal and literary. I am sorry to seem to disobey you, but I am.
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