The Mortgaged Heart by Margarita G. Smith

isn't fair—isn't fair that I can't."
    "Hush," said Mrs. Lane with testy sibilance. "Hush, Constance. You don't have to worry over nonsense."
    "And my hair—" She lifted her hand to the oily knot that bumped out from the nape of her neck. "Not washed with water in—months—nasty awful hair that's going to run me wild. I can stand all the pleurisy and drains and t.b. but—"
    Mrs. Lane was holding the flowers so tightly that they curled limply into each other as though ashamed. "Hush," she repeated hollowly. "This isn't necessary."
    The sky burned brightly—blue jet flames. Choking and murderous to air.
    "Maybe if it were just cut off short—"
    The garden shears snipped shut slowly. "Here—if you want me to—I guess I could clip it. Do you really want it short?"
    She turned her head to one side and feebly lifted one hand to tug at the bronze hairpins. "Yes—real short. Cut it all off."
    Dank brown, the heavy hair hung several inches below the pillow. Hesitantly Mrs. Lane bent over and grasped a handful of it. The blades, blinding bright in the sun, began to shear through it slowly.
    Mick appeared suddenly from behind the spirea bushes. Naked, except for her swimming trunks, her plump little chest gleamed silky white in the sun. Just above her round child's stomach were scolloped two soft lines of plumpness. "Mother! Are you giving
her
a haircut?"
    Mrs. Lane held the dissevered hair gingerly, staring at it for a moment with her strained face. "Nice job," she said brightly. "No little fuzzes around your neck, I hope."
    "No," said Constance, looking at her little sister.

    The child held out an open hand. "Give it to me, Mother. I can stuff it into the cutest little pillow for King. I can—"
    "Don't dare let her touch the filthy stuff," said Constance between her teeth. Her hand fingered the stiff, loose fringes around her neck, then sank tiredly to pluck at the grass.
    Mrs. Lane crouched over and, moving the white flowers from the newspaper where she had laid them, wrapped up the hair and left the bundle lying on the ground behind the invalid's chair.
    "I'll take it when I go in—"
    The bees droned on in the hot stillness. The shade had grown blacker, and the little shadows that had fluttered by the side of the oak trees were still. Constance pushed the blanket down to her knees. "Have you told Papa about my going so soon?"
    "Yes, I telephoned him."
    "To Mountain Heights?" asked Mick, balancing herself on one bare leg and then the other.
    "Yes, Mick."
    "Mother, isn't that where you went to see Unca Charlie?"
    "Yes."
    "Is that where he sent us the cactus candy from—a long time ago?"
    Lines, fine and grey as the web of a spider, cut through the pale skin around Mrs. Lane's mouth and between her eyes. "No, Mick. Mountain Heights is just the other side of Atlanta. That was Arizona."
    "It was funny tasting," said Mick.
    Mrs. Lane began cutting the flowers again with hurried snips. "I—I think I hear that dog of yours howling somewhere. Go tend to him—go—run along, Mick."
    "You don't hear King, Mother. Howard's teaching him to shake hands out on the back porch. Please don't make me go." She laid her hands on her soft mound of stomach. "Look! You haven't said anything about my bathing suit. Aren't I nice in it, Constance?"
    The sick girl looked at the flexed, eager muscles of the child before her, and then gazed back at the sky. Two words shaped themselves soundlessly on her lips.
    "Gee! I wanna hurry up and get in. Did you know they're making people walk through a kind of ditch thing so you won't get sore toes this year—And they've got a new chute-ty-chute."

    "Mind me this instant, Mick, and go on in the house."
    The child looked at her mother and started off across the lawn. As she reached the path that led to the door she paused and, shading her eyes, looked back at them. "Can we go soon?" she asked, subdued.
    "Yes, get your towels and be ready."
    For several