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    She said I was overreacting to his concern, and that he was actually a very thoughtful and warm person who was worried about me. He had told her so.
    I said the coincidence was crazy.
    She said, what coincidence?
    I said the one she’d just mentioned, him being the “doctor” who was so anxious to ship Granny Gran off to Buffalo, for Pete’s sake, and also being the new psychologist at my school in New York.
    She said he was a very fine psychologist who was pursuing his interest in mental degeneration from two angles at once: on the one hand he worked with the aged who were losing their marbles, and on the other he was interested in the young who were just learning to use their marbles. Can you believe that? She must have gotten it straight from Brightner himself.
    This was getting worse than nowhere, and the tips of my scorched fingers had begun to throb.
    She said, “Valli, are you all right? You look flushed,” and she touched my cheek with the back of her hand.
    â€œI’m fine!” I yelled. “I’m dying, if you want to know!”
    And I flung myself into my room and slammed the door. The phone rang, and I heard her settle down to a low-voiced conversation (it wouldn’t be Gran, then). I stayed where I was with the light off and sort of drifted off to sleep.
    I woke up at about two in the morning. My fingers, where The Claw had touched me, were hot and blistered and made my whole hand ache. Maybe The Claw had given me blood poisoning or gangrene.
    Mom was asleep. I could sort of feel that in the stillness of the apartment. She was sleeping, and I was sick, but I wouldn’t wake her up and worry her with my crazy fantasies, not me. Let her find me raving in the morning, or unconscious, swooned out. Too bad tomorrow was Saturday, not a school day I could miss due to Claw-poisoning death.
    Feeling very sorry for myself, I scrunched up on my bed in my clothes in the dark, longing for my Gran to come, call, do something about my hand and my mom and Brightner. I took out the silver glove and folded it under my cheek. It brought back very clearly the bristle-faced flea market vendor who had sold the glove to me, and the two women going through the box of shoes next to me and laughing about how out-of-style they were.
    All of a sudden it hit me: tomorrow was Saturday . Flea Market Day. The glove had told me where to find my runaway Gran.

 
    5
Bad Character
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    I WOKE UP EARLY with my wounded hand wrapped in the silver glove, and my fingers didn’t hurt anymore. Nothing was left of the blisters but two faint red marks.
    Mom was still asleep. I left a note on the kitchen table saying I had to go to the museum to check out something as part of my schoolwork, and that I would be back for lunch, just so she wouldn’t get all worried if I was out for a while.
    The flea market didn’t open till ten. I strolled on Broadway, the glove rolled up and tucked securely into my pocket. At exactly five after ten, I cut over to Columbus and trotted up to the south gateway into the schoolyard.
    The day was chilly and overcast, but the vendors’ tables were set up in rows as usual. I bought hot apple fritters at the gate and ate them out of a napkin, scorching my teeth when I bit into them.
    I wandered up and down the aisles between the rows of tables, looking at lamps made out of duck decoys and a whole array of chromium car-hood ornaments and old tin candy boxes selling for big bucks without any candy in them and tattered books and ashtrays in every possible shape and form including a Scotchman’s head, in a green tam-o’-shanter, with the mouth open for ashes. Really gross and stupid, but some people will collect anything.
    Gran was nowhere to be seen. There was no real crowd for her to get lost in, either. The vendors wandered around buying stuff from each other and chatting together. There was a comfortable confusion and a lot of bright color, and I