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Esther McCoy                               10

rolled over twice on the grass then bounded back to the hall and through the swinging door to the bathroom to drink noisily from his bowl.
     Schindler came and looked over my shoulder at the drawings.  I waited for the blow to fall.  "Okay," he said, "Call the blueprinter."
     "They aren't finished.  I couldn't get the dimensions of the living room windows."
     "Oh, that."  He picked up a blunt pencil and drew freehand two big rectangles.  "I haven't decided what I want to do with them yet.  Get them to blueprint." 
     I went to the telephone on his desk and looked at his absurdly small telephone directory.  As I searched the Bs he called out the number.  
     When he asked me to get the square footage of the house I started with the largest rectangle then proceeded to the projections.  He was already ahead of me; leaning over me, smelling of redwood, he called under his breath, ". . .zwanzig, dreizig . . ." and counted on his fingers.  I was hardly under way before he announced "Twelve hundred [[strikethrough]] a [[/strikethrough] ^[[u]]nd fünfzig."
     Then he disappeared into the bathroom and I heard the shower running.
     That evening two things about the day kept pushing aside the big picture, the mayonnaise jars filled with screws and bolts that could be opened with one hand, and the smallness of his