Now I want you to turn square
around and look. No, look again. You see now, there's no one following.
Now I want you to cross the street over there to the Subway. Just with
Alma who loves you. There's nobody following. Just with Alma who loves
you."
And then Carrie, whose lace hat was quite on the back of her head,
relaxed enough so that through the enormous maze of the traffic of
trucks and the heavier drags of the lower city, her daughter could wind
their way.
"My baby! My poor Louis!" she kept saying. "The worst I've ever been.
Oh--Alma--Louis--waiting--before we get there--Louis!"
It was in the tightest tangle of the crossing and apparently on this
conjuring of her husband that Carrie jerked suddenly free of Alma's
frailer hold.
"No--no--not home--now. Him. Alma!" And darted back against the breast
of the down side of the traffic.
There was scarcely more than the quick rotation of her arm around with
the spoke of a truck wheel, so quickly she went down.
It was almost a miracle, her kind of death, because out of all that jam
of tonnage she carried only one bruise, a faint one, near the brow.
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