|On the Makaloa Mat LondonJack Publishedablkis
 

ght out to sea without wetting her hornswith-
out looking back. Ammu flew through her dream on heavyshuddering wingsand
stopped to restjust under the skin of it. She had pressed roses from the blue cross-
stitch counterpane on her cheek. She sensed her children’s faces hanging over her
dreamlike two darkworried moonswaiting to be let in. “D’you think she’s dying?”
she heard Rahel whisper to Estha. “It’s an afternoon-mare” Estha-the-Accurate
replied. “She dreams a lot.” If he touched her be couldn’t talk to beif he loved her
be couldn’t leaveif be spoke he couldn’t listenif he fought he couldn’t win. Who
was hethe one-armed man? Who could he have been? The God of Loss? The God
of Small Things? The God of Goosebumps and Sudden Smiles? Of Sourmetal
Smells–like steel bus rails and the smell of the bus conductor’s hands from holding
them? “Should we wake her up?’ Estha said. Chinks of late afternoon light stole into
the room through the curtains and fell on Ammu’s tangerine-shaped transistor radio
that she always took with her to the rivet (Tangerine-shaped toowas the Thing that
Estha carried into The Sound of Music in his sticky Other Hand.) Bright bars of sun-
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On the Makaloa Mat LondonJack Publishedablkog