In the morning, Leta fed her children Vivian and Dale a simple breakfast of toast
and coffee. There was no cream or milk in the house, so they all had to drink
it black. She instructed them to dress for the weather and then sent them off
to school. For a long time, she watched down the street, still in her
nightgown, wrapped for warmth in a ragged shawl she had received from one of her
sisters years ago.
If the
children had noticed anything peculiar about her, they didn’t say. However,
they were quiet and obedient. As they were putting on their coats and hats, she
thought she heard Vivian whispering, but when she approached, neither behaved
as though they had been caught in an inappropriate or secret act. She packed a
surprise in their lunches – cheese sandwiches. These were the last bits of
cheese in the house. They would be surprised, she thought, and pleased.
At least a
quarter of an hour after they left, she closed the door. She was chilled, but barely
noticed. Then she finished her coffee. It was cold and tepid. It didn’t matter.
Her entire body felt to her like it was working independent of her mind, that
some other brain controlled it, like an automobile in neutral slowly rolling
down a hill. The engine was running, but gravity governed its progress.
She dressed
and then went into Vivian’s room. As she anticipated, everything was in its
place. There wasn’t much, of course, just a bed, dresser and small nightstand
with a few hooks on the wall. The bed was made with the coverings pulled tight.
Vivian’s dresses were neatly hung on the hooks. Her brushes and a small bottle
of perfume she had received from her Uncle Walter were in assigned places on
the nightstand. Two books from the library were stacked on one corner of the
dresser. Within the dresser her clothes were folded and arranged by
type—underclothes in one drawer, stockings in another, nightclothes, sweaters
and shawls all reasonably organized. Everything was dusted.
Her son Dale’s
room was a different experience. He had a bed and one dresser as well as a toy box
that Leta had acquired several years earlier. The bed was unmade with the
sheets and blankets dragging onto the floor and his largest ball in the middle
of it. He had removed his pajamas and left them beside the toy box, which was
open and piled so sloppily with toys it looked like he actually had more than
he did. A fire truck lay beside the dresser, draped in used underwear and
socks. Or maybe they were clean. Leta had difficulty knowing, for all of the
drawers of the dresser were pulled out from two to four inches with garments
either climbing in or trying to escape. Two pairs of slacks and one jacket were
clutching one of the hooks for dear life, and the other four were empty. A
faint odor of sweet mold hung in the air, and she knew that she would
eventually discover some half-eaten jelly sandwich among the tumult. In several
places, she stepped on something sticky.
By the time
Vivian and Dale arrived home from school that afternoon, the rain had stopped,
but a damp dreariness still clung to the air. Leta had turned up the heat as
high as it would go, but still, wearing a wool dress and shawl, she felt a
chill. Mostly, she felt as though she would never be warm again.
Vivian had not
even taken off her coat when she noticed the bags. There were four of them,
placed beside the couch as inconspicuously as Leta could.
“Ma?” Vivian
questioned. “What are those bags doing there? Have you been packing?”
Leta was
sitting in an easy chair. She had not turned on a lamp, so the children would
not see her swollen red eyes and flushed face. She held a mottled handkerchief
in her hand, damp with tears and mucus.
“I want you
two to sit down,” Leta feebly squeaked, “right there on the davenport
together.”
“It’s cold in
here,” Dale noted.
“Go put a
sweater on,” Vivian instructed.
Leta cleared
her throat loudly.
“First, I want
you to sit her and listen to me,” Leta ordered.
The children
sat down with fifteen-year-old Vivian sharing her shawl with her
twelve-year-old brother.
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