. He will be hanged—hanged—hanged. “Why won’t you sleep in my bed tonight, Lucia, where 80 it’s warm?” He asked her one night, teasing but mournful, as she stood in her bedroom doorway in a long white gown. Even Lucy’s bra and panties, the ubiquitous polyester underwire and matching cotton bikini briefs from Kmart, were gone. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. A little smothered cry broke from her lips—the curtains were thrown aside and a man stepped out.
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