I want to call back across the years and tell her I never meant to stop her from getting her dog.
She could have had it all to herself, and I wouldn't have fed it, or brushed it, or played with it—
and I would never have made it like me more than it liked her.
I only wanted her to play games with me the way we used to. I never meant to do anything that would hurt her at all.
June 6 — My first real quarrel with Alice today. My fault.
I wanted to see her. Often, after a disturbing memory or dream, talking to her—just being with her—makes me feel better.
But it was a mistake to go down to the Center to pick her up.
I had not been back to the Center for Retarded Adults since the operation, and the thought of seeing the place was exciting.
It's on Twenty-third Street, east of Fifth Avenue, in an old schoolhouse
that has been used by the Beekman University Clinic for the last five years as a center for experimental education—special classes for the handicapped.
The sign outside on the doorway, framed by the old spiked gateway, is just a gleaming brass plate that says C. R. A. Beekman Extension.
Her class ended at eight, but I wanted to see the room where—not so long ago—
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