56 ALBACORA 



I was wearing a nightgown with a frilly top that fit 

 in perfectly with the bedroom decor of our duplex apart- 

 ment on East 57th Street. Unfortunately, it also fit in 

 with another aspect of our duplex: the central heating 

 system. Turning from the dresser, Lou advanced on 

 me, eyeing the nightgown and holding a crumpled 

 conglomeration of clothing in his hands. "That stuff 

 isn't warm enough," he said and suddenly he had my 

 nightgown off. 



"Ice," I shouted. "I'll turn into a cake of ice." But 

 then he had a long woolen nightgown on me. 



"There," he said loudly. "Is that better?" 



"A little," I admitted. Then Lou went to sleep and I 

 stayed awake amid roaring pain, raising my leg, twist- 

 ing my body from waist to knee, twitching my toes and 

 wondering whether my right hip would ever be the same. 

 Shortly before four o'clock, when Lou and all the 

 others awakened, I was wide awake, too. The difference, 

 of course, was that I had not yet fallen asleep. But there 

 was one consolation. While Lou prepared to rush off 

 to the Humboldt, a maid arrived, apparently determined 

 to cure me. This maid came complete with an electric 

 heater, small, feeble, and yet, under the circumstances, 

 absolutely priceless. 



"Her name," Lou told me just before he left, "is 

 Nervous." 



"That can't be right," I said. "Nervous!" My voice 

 had been quite loud. The maid turned around. She was 

 a Chilean of part Indian descent — large and motherly. 



