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With bitterness and disgust she had cursed the poet's wonder at mira-
cles, She was childless and could not bear another irritation- When
he had abandoned Helen, she was flopped across the bed drunk. This

was six months ago.
"Ain't you warm?" she said, breaking the silence. He turned

quickly and threateningly, for she had startled him. "Ain't you warm?

You still have your coat on."
"Yes, I guess I am." He slipped off his coat and handed it to her.

She placed it in the closet.
The young poet moved closer to the. woman until their bodies al-

most touched. "Well?" he said as his finger traced a line along the V

of her blouse.
She backed away in a stiff trance. In grotesque innocence she

asked, "You know how to build a house?"
"What?"
"A house out of blocks-a castle."
"Are you crazy?"
"Come on, Mister Poet. Build me a house. Please."
"What are you trying to pull? Why in tarnation's name did you

ever bring me up here?"
"To build a house," she replied softly. Without hesitating she

grabbed his hand and led him to the corner where the blocks lay. She
knelt quickly and gathered the blocks into a pile.

He was speechless. What had happened? What kind of a woman
had he facetiously called his Madonna? But who else could this crea-
ture in black be than a companion of night? Who else would crouch
in creepy corners to prey upon strangers? Is it the room that makes
her like this? He was still standing over her, but his huffy dominance

was melting.
"Wanta build a king's castle, Mister Poet?" She gazed upward at

the man who was accustomed to looking down.
"Please come down and help me build it, Mister Poet?"
He knelt almost prayerfully as if not knowing his own insecure

weakness. He stared into her happy eyes. For some reason, he did not

know how to speak to her anymore.
She's so oblivious to the night, so cockeyed innocent right now.

There's something about this room. There must be. If only I had a
child like her. Maybe Helen could have tolerated me then. I can
still hear her lying on the bed laughing, laughing, laughing. The
words rang in the poet's ears, and he could not shake them loose. The
drink had spilt, and she dangled the empty glass goblet like a cheap

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