not understand it or herself. She pulled the paper off her pad and crumpled it up, stuffing it in her big tote so as not to litter her sacred place. She opened a cigarette and spilled its contents of shredded brown tobacco around the base of the Tree in solemn remembrance of its sacred nature, repeating the words taught to her by the old women in town. Joe would be back tonight. She had promised him a fish and wild rice dinner but she knew she wouldn't bother with it. There was enough laundry to keep her busy for days but she wouldn't go near it. She had promised to clean the house and she hadn't done that either because she didn't care whether the house was clean or not. It was too big to begin with. The cathedral ceilings were unreachable except by ladder. The wide wooden floorboards were eternally dusty. The huge glass walls facing the lake were always dirty, even twenty-four hours after she cleaned them. The house overwhelmed her with its demands, just as Joe overwhelmed her with his demands to own her and return his passion. She had dreamt a half-dozen times now of lightning striking the house and setting it ablaze in a magnificent bonfire. Once she had loved him. Once he had been bright with enthusiasm for teaching and ideas but he didn't seem to care any more. He only cared about making money and about her. His adoration which had once protected and cushioned her now enveloped and suffocated her. It required her to be kind to him and not shatter his adoration which was inextricably tied up with his own identity. She was responsible for his joy or lack of joy every minute of every day and night. She was learning to hate him for it. A single white gull soaring over her head called raucously into the wind. Becky couldn't imagine that it was marking its territory in the sky. There was plenty of room for thousands of gulls in the sky above her. It was only when the gulls landed on the shores of the lake that they fought over space. She packed up her sketching equipment and headed back for town. She put the Jeep in low gear and roared up out of the small dusty pocket where she had parked and onto the dirt road leading to the main highway and town. A tall cloud of dust swirled up behind her as she lurched down the road. She and the Jeep belonged to each other on this road where the ruts and rocks were part of the reality. The Jeep had been Joe's present to her last Christmas and for a moment she had loved him for it. The jolting motion of the ride disappeared on the black pavement of the state highway with its neat yellow and white lines. She didn't want to go home and wait for Joe. By four o'clock she would be in a panic because she had done no painting since he left three days ago. By five she would be in front of her easel slashing at the canvas in the fury that accompanied her work now. By six she would begin to fix the