It was dark, probably about midnight, when I went into Sallys room. I stood looking over her room with a tremendous hard on pointing into the darkness like a searching finger. I looked down on her bed. As always, it was carefully made up, a modest but neat cotton blanket to keep the chill off during the cool summer nights. On the night stand was a picture of her 30 year-old son, barely visible in the darkness, a lamp and her Bible.
Sally, of course, was not here. I would never have dared step into her room if she were. After all, I was just 20 years old and I was renting a spare room in her house, just across the hall from her own bedroom. She was really more than my landlady. After all, she was only charging me $10 a month, mostly as a favor to my girlfriend who worked for her at one of Sallys dress shops. So Sally was really a friend.
When my girlfriend Abby introduced us for the first time I had called her Mrs. Josephs. I knew she had been divorced for many years, had one son,...
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