“I say it because it’s true,” Alice said. “I’m the only one here that ever knew Steve Ketchel and I come from Mancelona and I knew him there and it’s true and you know it’s true and God can strike me dead if it isn’t true.”
“He can strike me too,” Peroxide said.
“This is true, true, true, and you know it. Not just made up and I know exactly what he said to me.”
“What did he say?” Peroxide asked, complacently.
Alice was crying so she could hardly speak from shaking so. “He said ‘You’re a lovely piece, Alice.’ That’s exactly what he said.”
“It’s a lie,” Peroxide said.
“It’s true,” Alice said. “That’s truly what he said.”
“It’s a lie,” Peroxide said proudly.
“No, it’s true, true, true, to Jesus and Mary true.”
“Steve couldn’t have said that. It wasn’t the way he talked,” Peroxide said happily.
“It’s true,” said Alice in her nice voice. “And it doesn’t make any difference to me whether you believe it or not.” She wasn’t crying any more and she was calm.
“It would be impossible for Steve to have said that,” Peroxide declared.
“He said it,” Alice said and smiled. “And I remember when he said it and I was a lovely piece then exactly as he said, and right now I’m a better piece than you, you dried up old hot-water bottle.”
“You can’t insult me,” said Peroxide. “You big mountain of pus. I have my memories.”
“No,” Alice said in that sweet lovely voice, “you haven’t got any real memories except having your tubes out and when you started C. and M. Everything else you just read in the papers. I’m clean and you know it and men like me, even though I’m big, and you know it, and I never lie and you know it.”
“Leave me with my memories,” Peroxide said. “With my true, wonderful memories.”
Alice looked at her and then at us and her face lost that
