There’s something about the empty and unadorned spare bedroom at the end of the hall that you especially like on those rare occasions when you’ve got the house to yourself. A latent sensuality and anticipation seems to touch everything in the afternoon sunlight. It could be a room in an entirely different house. Soon to go off to the state university on a scholarship, you are the bookish oldest daughter of a widowed mother with a brittle disposition and little natural parental authority. At such times, in the stillness, you seem to listen for resolute footsteps on the stairs, to draw in your breath as you hear them coming down the hallway. Then a beautiful, strict, and determined mother stands in the doorway with hairbrush or switch in hand (or, sometimes, if the need in you is strong, a handsome, loving, but very firm father, regretfully taking off his fearsome belt!). This parent is obviously intent on teaching you a memorable lesson for your secret misbehavior and your unladylike daydreams. Oh, those exquisitely daring and frustrating daydreams...
