Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. She was alarmed at how little her husband Gianfrancesco packed for the trip, leaving behind his best scarlet and black lucco, which he wore for every business and political meeting. Women, she had been taught, who exposed the flesh of their bodies under the eyes of man were in a special catagory of the damned. When the word “FREAK” appeared scratched in the persimmon colored paint on her locker, she knew that in some fragile young woman’s mind a war had escalated from imaginary to physical. But her mind was ruffled, and its mirror-like surface of satisfaction was not easily restored. For a long time she surveyed a row of towering holly-hocks, as though they offered an explanation.
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