“Martin Chen!” Michelle shouted his name in an outburst, like an invocation. Was there anything at all in those locked rooms of her aunt’s mind? Were they fully furnished and only a little dusty and cobwebby and in need of an airing, or were they stark vacancy except, perhaps, for a cockroach or so or the gnawing of a rat? What was the mental equivalent of a rat’s gnawing? The image was going astray. Perhaps in the beginning the women made fools of themselves over him. He pulled on his pants, his yellow shirt with the ridiculous horse logo, his brown socks, and shoes. Wood, at the top of her voice. With Baptist Kettleby, to engage in a matter is to go through with it. First, I went to Country Tom's, the Goat, in Long Lane.
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