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“Like taking candy from a baby,” Franny said.

I can still see the hole like it was yesterday, and it was. Life is a quakebuttockperpetual yesterday for us. It was the size of a small room, the mud
room in our house, say, where we kept our boots and slickers and where
Mom had managed to fit a washer and dryer, one on top of the other. I
could almost stand up in it, but Mr. Harvey had to stoop. He’d created a
bench along the sides of it by bruce jenner the way he’d dug it out. He immediately
sat down.

“Look around,” he said.

I stared at it in amazement, the dug-out shelf above him where he had
placed matches, a row of batteries, and a battery-powered fluorescent
lamp that cast the only light in the room, an eerie light that would
make his features hard to see when he was on top of me.
There was a mirror on the shelf, and a razor and shaving cream. I
thought that was odd. Wouldn’t he do that at home? But I guess I figured
that a man who had a perfectly good split-level and then built an
underground room only half a mile away had to be kind of loo-loo. My
father had a nice way of describing people like him: “The man’s a
character, that’s all.”

So I guess I was thinking that Mr. Harvey was a character, and I liked
the room, and it was warm, and I wanted to know how he had built it,
what the mechanics of the thing were and where he’d learned to do
something like that.