AS FAR AS MOTHER UNDERSTANDS, hers is not the only family ever to experience calamity. Daughters wander off into the woods, stumble into prostitution, fall in love with sailors, are eaten by wolves. When Mother was a child, she knew of a shapely girl who was plucked from her bath by a large and lice-ridden bird; it held her dripping from its talons and then, squawking merrily, took to the sky. The girl's family left the tub out by the barn, in the hope that once the bird tired of her company, it might return her to her bath. Over time the tub rusted and rattled; sometimes mice would scamper over its edge and drown.
But the misfortunes of other families seem always to involve disappearance or abduction. The girl is missed; she is mourned; she is remembered as bonny and helpful and light on her feet. What a loss! What a shame! Women clasp their daughters to their breasts and whisper horrors into their ears: Darkness. Appetites. Trees. And no moon to light your way.
And then there is Madeleine, who doesn't seem to be going anywhere; who takes up room; who attracts attention; who lies there, sighing voluptuously, as Mother sweats over the fire.
Nothing makes one's own work more difficult than being in the presence of another's idleness. The sight of Madeleine, stretched upon the bed, begins to try her mother's patience. Occasionally, she grows careless with the handle of her broom. Accidentally, she sets the pots aclattering. In the middle of the night, she undertakes an experiment: when a candle drips its wax onto Madeleine's cheek, it sets into motion a most fascinating series of twitches.