brassy jangle. Footsteps sounded on the marble stairs, and a voice pursued them hollowly.
"Bring ten cents' worth of potato salad, too, Ben."
A man with a proud, businesslike purposefulness appeared on the landing. His brow was puckered importantly. He was skinning the inside of his lip by a system of nervous, rapid snatches. His impressive mien was designed to conceal the smallness of his errand.
Dot slid over on the steps and the man walked past her, down the hall, and out of the door.
"I hope he remembers the liverwurst," Eddie said.
Dot smiled, but not at Eddie's remark. It was a thoughtful, wondering smile.
"That woman who hollered don't care no more about living," she said.
"Do you know her?"
"No, but when a woman hollers down a stairs like that, it's 'cause she don't care what the neighbors think, and she gets like that when nothing counts any more."
"You're crazy," Eddie said. "My mother use to holler down the stairs when she wanted something."
"Is she dead?" Dot asked.
"Yeh, so's the old man. He died from pneumonia. He sold his coat for a drink and caught cold." The corners of Eddie's mouth twisted into a travestied smile. "He sold all the parlor furniture one day and stayed drunk for a week. My old lady was good though, she . . . But say, I got off the track, she use to holler downstairs."
Dot said nothing. Her head was resting against the balustrade bars, and her pleated skirt lay in soft folds on the bottom step. The front door slammed, and a woman of thirty or thereabouts with keen brown eyes and a fine figure came into the foyer.
She smiled at Dot as she passed and said something
