She opened the door on her side and got out. She bent over the seat and undid the parcel. She took out a pair of burnt-orange slacks, some cheap sneakers, and a wooly yellow sweat shirt. She took the black suit jacket off and folded it and put it on the back seat. The odd light of the yellow sky came down through the trees. The leaves dripped. She undid her skirt at the side and stepped out of it carefully. There was no coyness about her, not the slightest flavor of modesty. She did not care whether I stared at her or averted my eyes. She folded the skirt and put it with the jacket. She took her blouse off and put it carefully on the back seat. She stood there in the woodland in black hat with veil, black shoes, skimpy oyster-white bra and panties, looking both provocative and ridiculous. The hat was last. She gave me a wry look and said, "Strip tease alfresco. Aren't you supposed to stamp your feet or something?" "Aren't you cold?" "I'm a warm-blooded thing." She put the wooly, baggy sweat shirt on, then stepped into the slacks and pulled them up around her full hips and fastened them with zipper and buttons. She sat on the car seat and took off her black shoes and put them in back and put on the sneakers and laced them up. "Good God, I haven't had clothes like this in years. How do I look, Tal?" I couldn't tell her how she looked. It wasn't a return to the girl who had gone on the bike trips with Timmy. I would have guessed it would have made her look younger and fresher. But it didn't. Her body was too ripe, her eyes and mouth too knowing. The years had taken her beyond the point where she could wear such clothes and look young. She read the look in my eyes. "Not so good, I guess. Not good at all. You don't have to say it." "You look fine." "Don't be a damned fool. Wait a minute while I use the facilities, and then we'll get out of here." She went off into the woods out of sight of the car. She was back in a few minutes. I backed out. I looked at my watch. The time problem had been nearly solved. It was a little past twelve-fifteen. I pulled into the yard of the Doyle place, the Rasi place where she had been born. I saw that the boy had finished painting the boat. "It looks even worse than I remember," she said. She got out of the car and went toward the porch. The chickens were under the porch. The dog lay on the porch. He thumped his tail. Antoinette leaned over and scratched him behind the ear. He thudded the tail with more energy. Her sister came to the doorway, dirty towel in her hand. "Hello, Anita," Antoinette said calmly. "What are you doing here? Doyle don't want you coming around here. You know that." "----Doyle," Antoinette said. "Don't use that kind of language with kids in the house. I'm warning you." The girl who had cried came up behind her mother and stared at us. "You're so damn cautious about the kids," Antoinette said with contempt. "Hi there, Sandy." "Hi," the girl said in a muted voice.