I told myself I wanted to be rich and famous and that I had the talent to be a singer, but I don’t know if I ever really believed it. I just needed to get out.” She cocked her head, looking at him the way a little dog might look at something worrisome. “It wasn’t all bad, you know,” she said. “I make it seem like some kind of soap opera. We had some good times together before Michael got sick. But something died with him. He was a big part of the family, so that changed things. Looking back, I guess he was the glue that held us together. My parents never really recovered. My father, especially.”
“And you?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She sighed again, and tucked a lock of hair behind one ear, a gesture he had come to realize meant she was feeling uncomfortable.
“Just one more thing. Did you dream about it again last night?”
“No, I don’t remember anything, anyway. Did you?” Heshook his head. “Maybe it’s over,” she said. Her voice was hopeful as she tried to make herself believe what she was saying. “Maybe we’re both crazy, after all.”
“Maybe.”
“Listen, can we take a walk, or something? I’d like to get out of here.”
He stood up and pulled a few wrinkled bills out of his pocket and laid them on the table. He was thinking about something she had said earlier, about the heroin: It made me forget things, everything. Who I was . And he thought, We both have our tragedies we’d like to forget .
But that was another thing he had been thinking about lately. They shouldn’t try so hard to forget. Maybe the past was important.
They were walking past the gazebo when the old woman approached them across the square.
Her body was rail-thin and her gray dress hung off her shoulders like a burlap sack. She was moving quickly, the sunlight and shadows playing about her figure making her seem ephemeral, almost ghostlike. Smith could hear her muttering to herself as she approached. Something inside him went off like an alarm as the woman got close. He took a half step back and gripped Angel’s hand. “I don’t think—” he began, meaning to say, I don’t think she’s quite right . But the woman interrupted.
“He’s coming!” she hissed at them. She had stopped barely three feet away, and stood with her fists clenched and the cords standing out in her neck. Her eyes were wild and rolling, her white hair a snarl about her head, and she spoke with a furious energy. “The time is close!” Spittle flew in big white flecks as she spat out the next words, as if something had curdled in her sunken mouth. Her voice had raised itself to a new level, taking on the cadence of a preacher in front of his flock. “‘ And they found the stone rolled away from the tomb —’”
“Leave them alone, Annie,” a voice said from behind them. “They don’t want any of your sermons today.”
They turned. The voice belonged to a man of medium height with slim shoulders, blond hair swept back from his face and parted on the side. He wore a white shirt and conservative blue-striped tie, tan Dockers, and brown penny loafers. He had an intelligent, sober face, and bright blue eyes. “Go on, Annie,” he said. “You’ve got better things to do than this.”
“I’ve been waiting,” the old woman said. In the extremes of her dementia her age seemed to melt away, and she peered at them with the bright, focused gaze of a young girl, eyes darting from face to face as if searching for something. She nodded, her head bobbing on a long thin neck. “Yes,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for you too, you know.”
The man who had spoken took the old woman by the arm. He whispered to her quietly, gently, turning her in the other direction, and after a moment the manic gleam in her eyes slowly died. Smith thought she would start to move away, but suddenly she broke the man’s grip, turned back and shuffled right up to him. He stood unable to react as she reached out to touch his cheek
“And you?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She sighed again, and tucked a lock of hair behind one ear, a gesture he had come to realize meant she was feeling uncomfortable.
“Just one more thing. Did you dream about it again last night?”
“No, I don’t remember anything, anyway. Did you?” Heshook his head. “Maybe it’s over,” she said. Her voice was hopeful as she tried to make herself believe what she was saying. “Maybe we’re both crazy, after all.”
“Maybe.”
“Listen, can we take a walk, or something? I’d like to get out of here.”
He stood up and pulled a few wrinkled bills out of his pocket and laid them on the table. He was thinking about something she had said earlier, about the heroin: It made me forget things, everything. Who I was . And he thought, We both have our tragedies we’d like to forget .
But that was another thing he had been thinking about lately. They shouldn’t try so hard to forget. Maybe the past was important.
They were walking past the gazebo when the old woman approached them across the square.
Her body was rail-thin and her gray dress hung off her shoulders like a burlap sack. She was moving quickly, the sunlight and shadows playing about her figure making her seem ephemeral, almost ghostlike. Smith could hear her muttering to herself as she approached. Something inside him went off like an alarm as the woman got close. He took a half step back and gripped Angel’s hand. “I don’t think—” he began, meaning to say, I don’t think she’s quite right . But the woman interrupted.
“He’s coming!” she hissed at them. She had stopped barely three feet away, and stood with her fists clenched and the cords standing out in her neck. Her eyes were wild and rolling, her white hair a snarl about her head, and she spoke with a furious energy. “The time is close!” Spittle flew in big white flecks as she spat out the next words, as if something had curdled in her sunken mouth. Her voice had raised itself to a new level, taking on the cadence of a preacher in front of his flock. “‘ And they found the stone rolled away from the tomb —’”
“Leave them alone, Annie,” a voice said from behind them. “They don’t want any of your sermons today.”
They turned. The voice belonged to a man of medium height with slim shoulders, blond hair swept back from his face and parted on the side. He wore a white shirt and conservative blue-striped tie, tan Dockers, and brown penny loafers. He had an intelligent, sober face, and bright blue eyes. “Go on, Annie,” he said. “You’ve got better things to do than this.”
“I’ve been waiting,” the old woman said. In the extremes of her dementia her age seemed to melt away, and she peered at them with the bright, focused gaze of a young girl, eyes darting from face to face as if searching for something. She nodded, her head bobbing on a long thin neck. “Yes,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for you too, you know.”
The man who had spoken took the old woman by the arm. He whispered to her quietly, gently, turning her in the other direction, and after a moment the manic gleam in her eyes slowly died. Smith thought she would start to move away, but suddenly she broke the man’s grip, turned back and shuffled right up to him. He stood unable to react as she reached out to touch his cheek
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