Alone Again

Leta had not left the house in three days, and even so had confined herself to the first floor. She spent most of her time sitting on the sofa. During the day she dozed, but when darkness descended, she could not sleep. She lay down, pulled the knitted afghan over her body and closed her eyes, but sleep would not come to her. At least it didn’t seem to. While waiting for the first hint of daylight, she would listen to the night sounds—the creeks of the of the house as it was tickled by a breeze, an owl pausing on a nearby tree before resuming its hunt, a distant train or lake freighter carrying cargo from one location to another, a forlorn tom cat moaning at its loneliness.

Sometimes she would rise, meander in the darkness to the kitchen and sit at the table. Although she had started several games of Solitaire, she could not concentrate enough to finish, leaving the cards in disrupted formation until she decided to try again. When she returned to the previously neglected game, she would to try to figure out where she was, but eventually decide to start over. More than once, she turned on the radio—to distract her or for companionship—and then suddenly realize that she was hearing only static, that the channel she thought she was listening to went quiet for the night.

She ate, even though she wasn’t hungry at all, forcing down toast, an egg here and there, some applesauce, or soup with saltines, and coffee. She drank a lot of coffee. Most of the food spoiled in the icebox.

Early on the fourth morning she heard a light rap at the door. She was awake, but startled. It was such a human sound. She stood, dropping the afghan onto the floor and made her way slowly and deliberately to the back door. Without looking to see who it was, she opened it to find the milkman standing on the stoop. The light was coming from the side, so she could make out part of his face.

“Mrs. Fields?” he said, somewhat like a question. “I saw the light on and, well, ma’am, I noticed that the milk I delivered a few days ago was still sitting in the milk box.”

“Oh, it is?” she questioned. “I simply forgot. Thank you.”

“Do you want me to change it out, ma’am?”

Although she heard the words, none of them penetrated.

“Ma’am?”

“Why, yes. Yes, of course,” she answered. “How much do I owe you?”

“It’s not pay time, ma’am. It’s the milk,” he replied patiently. “Why don’t I just hand you a quart of milk and a pint of cream. Would that do?”

Leta held out her hands, and he gave her the bottles.

“And I’ll just take these that you haven’t drunk, and take them off your bill.”

Leta stood in the doorway, and when the milkman finished, he tipped his hat to her.

“You take care of yourself, Mrs. Fields,” he said, as he turned away.

“Thank you,” she said.

At some point, she went back into the kitchen, put the two bottles into the icebox and made her morning coffee.

Before noon, she took a bath, curled her hair, put on a clean dress and walked to the grocer’s. She had a craving for bacon.