Issue 85, Fall 1982
It all started with the house, which looks a bit like a bird about to fly off the dune. Three levels, all almost entirely glass, jut out at angles to each other and to the beach so that every room has a view of the Atlantic. Behind the dune and the f house, off its own separate walk, is a storage shed that has no glass at all. Here Calvin, the man whose house this was, the man who gave this house to me, who loves me, piled his firewood, and here I have imprisoned the witch, my sister, who does not.
We had driven out from New York this morning, through a cold wind so strong it shook the car. Working, moving about quickly, we still felt cold, and decided to have a fire. We needed wood, which was in the shed. I lifted the first armful and started out the door—it slammed behind me, and appeared to have locked. I listened to Lois’s cries for a while—she suffers from claustrophobia—then I went back up to the house, where I now stand.