one what they talked about those once-a-week mornings.
Margaret Kemp began to come directly from work at the hardware to cook supper. She was an exceptionally tall, plain-faced, buxom woman in last yearâs low-heeled shoes who took care to camouflage the fullness of her figure with a slouch and close attention to dress patterns and pretty print blouses that she did not tuck into her narrow skirts. She wore just a touch of lipstick and it had never occurred to her to pluck her eyebrows. She would sometimes lick a finger to shape her brows but she would have been surprised to hear this.
Margaret dug right in. She scoured pots, scrubbed the kitchen floor on her hands and knees, stood Paul up on a kitchen chair to unscrew the ceiling light fixture so she could rinse the long-dead flies down the drain.
She could cook all right, but with no past experience judging appetites, she had a difficult time getting the quantities right. After a week of it she decided there was no such thing as too much, that whatever might be left over could be used up some other way, in a soup or a casserole or a stew. She decided better too much than too little and often she didnât have to decide anything at all because Billâs mother had sent a pot roast or someone from down the street had dropped off another ground-beef casserole.
She didnât sit down with them at the table. While Bill and the kids ate she went into the living room and found some nice music on the radio beside Sylviaâs bed and then she brought basins of hot water and a washcloth and the softest of the towels, closing the door to the others and pulling the paisley drapes, turning back the sheet. When the bathing was finished she returned with a fresh basin and they washed Sylviaâs hair, which had been cut short for the first time in her life and was now completely without sheen. There was always a jar of Noxzema on the table beside the bed and Margaret rubbed it on Sylviaâs back and arms and legs and feet, vigorously working the skin to try to keep the circulation going.
After Sylvia was clean, refreshed was the word she used, she chose one of the dozen nighties sheâd been given since sheâd been known to be sick and the two of them got it on her. Margaret changed the bedding religiously and quickly, helping Sylvia up and over to a chair, stripping the bed and making it new in no more than a minute. Without asking anyoneâs permission, she brought out the best quilts, after sheâd found them carefully wrapped in the linen cupboard on one of her few trips upstairs.
She cooked separately for Sylvia, holding back a little on the salt and spices as Cooper had advised. She made good cream soup, mushroom or chicken or potato, served it in one of Sylviaâs china soup plates. Sometimes she made salmon croquettes or Waldorf salad, enough for the two of them and no one else.
Sylvia appreciated all of this, particularly the bathing. She said that was almost the worst of it, not being able to keep herself fresh, and she refused to let her mother or Bill or Daphne bathe her. One late afternoon, while Margaret held a large hand mirror so she could comb her wet hair into place, Sylvia said to her, âIsnât life strange?â
Margaret held the mirror steady, tried to keep her own face hidden behind it. She had no way to guess what Sylvia was going to say. She had heard that some people spoke honestly when they believed they were dying, and sometimes to near strangers. She attempted to prepare herself, wondering how she could possibly be of any help to Sylvia when she herself had no faith, no magic, no way to believe in anything except the life that was right there in front of her. All she believed, all sheâd ever been able to tell herself, was, You canât know what is going to happen to you and there usually isnât much choice when it does. Of course she could be strict with herself about this, that there was nothing
Margaret Kemp began to come directly from work at the hardware to cook supper. She was an exceptionally tall, plain-faced, buxom woman in last yearâs low-heeled shoes who took care to camouflage the fullness of her figure with a slouch and close attention to dress patterns and pretty print blouses that she did not tuck into her narrow skirts. She wore just a touch of lipstick and it had never occurred to her to pluck her eyebrows. She would sometimes lick a finger to shape her brows but she would have been surprised to hear this.
Margaret dug right in. She scoured pots, scrubbed the kitchen floor on her hands and knees, stood Paul up on a kitchen chair to unscrew the ceiling light fixture so she could rinse the long-dead flies down the drain.
She could cook all right, but with no past experience judging appetites, she had a difficult time getting the quantities right. After a week of it she decided there was no such thing as too much, that whatever might be left over could be used up some other way, in a soup or a casserole or a stew. She decided better too much than too little and often she didnât have to decide anything at all because Billâs mother had sent a pot roast or someone from down the street had dropped off another ground-beef casserole.
She didnât sit down with them at the table. While Bill and the kids ate she went into the living room and found some nice music on the radio beside Sylviaâs bed and then she brought basins of hot water and a washcloth and the softest of the towels, closing the door to the others and pulling the paisley drapes, turning back the sheet. When the bathing was finished she returned with a fresh basin and they washed Sylviaâs hair, which had been cut short for the first time in her life and was now completely without sheen. There was always a jar of Noxzema on the table beside the bed and Margaret rubbed it on Sylviaâs back and arms and legs and feet, vigorously working the skin to try to keep the circulation going.
After Sylvia was clean, refreshed was the word she used, she chose one of the dozen nighties sheâd been given since sheâd been known to be sick and the two of them got it on her. Margaret changed the bedding religiously and quickly, helping Sylvia up and over to a chair, stripping the bed and making it new in no more than a minute. Without asking anyoneâs permission, she brought out the best quilts, after sheâd found them carefully wrapped in the linen cupboard on one of her few trips upstairs.
She cooked separately for Sylvia, holding back a little on the salt and spices as Cooper had advised. She made good cream soup, mushroom or chicken or potato, served it in one of Sylviaâs china soup plates. Sometimes she made salmon croquettes or Waldorf salad, enough for the two of them and no one else.
Sylvia appreciated all of this, particularly the bathing. She said that was almost the worst of it, not being able to keep herself fresh, and she refused to let her mother or Bill or Daphne bathe her. One late afternoon, while Margaret held a large hand mirror so she could comb her wet hair into place, Sylvia said to her, âIsnât life strange?â
Margaret held the mirror steady, tried to keep her own face hidden behind it. She had no way to guess what Sylvia was going to say. She had heard that some people spoke honestly when they believed they were dying, and sometimes to near strangers. She attempted to prepare herself, wondering how she could possibly be of any help to Sylvia when she herself had no faith, no magic, no way to believe in anything except the life that was right there in front of her. All she believed, all sheâd ever been able to tell herself, was, You canât know what is going to happen to you and there usually isnât much choice when it does. Of course she could be strict with herself about this, that there was nothing
Similar Books
