Naked and helpless

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The spring sunshine was bright and the flirtatious west wind brought a whiff of salt air to her nostrils as Jill Conklin stepped out the door of the garrish pink stucco house on Bay Street and headed down the hill towards Aquatic Park, a battered wooden paint box and large sketch pad under one arm, a webbed folding chair and wooden stool under the other one. She felt an exuberance bubbling through her young body and a curious sense of anticipation, as though something were about to happen. She had felt it since she first awoke in the musty, rose wallpapered room she rented in the eccentric widow's home. Josephine was a "character", a non-stop talker who was into metaphysical digests and painting rocks for her baroque garden, but the rent was dirt cheap – fifty bucks a month – and Jill had kitchen privileges. Fortunately, Josephine retired to her own bedroom at 7:00 each night with a vintage Zenith black and white television set, so the young girl was spared hours of occult monologues – no one ever conversed with Josephine; one listened and nodded one's head.

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