Cathy stood in the bedroom hallway in her faded blue bathrobe. There were lines in her face that age had not put there. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors. What about your real mother? Wasn’t she also a foster child? Michelle told me that she was suspected of murder, some people named McFerrin, McDougal. “Do you know,” she confessed, “I never thought of that?” He looked at her as though doubting even now whether she could possibly be in earnest.
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