She’s an angel. If you have any trouble with the answering machine, she’s very handy. They’re all very bright. The young ones all have perfect English.”
As she went up the stairs Elsie thought she’d just done a Jack. Not the stony-faced wait-’em-out Jack but the nipping-at-your-heels border-collie Jack. Couldn’t be helped; the woman was driving her nuts.
She trotted up quickly, a last little display of border collie. She slowed in the dark hallway. She’d never been in this part of the house. She stopped short in front of the half-open door. To go into Miss Perry’s bedroom seemed a terrible intimacy.
She knocked. Miss Perry’s voice floated to her, a single unsteady note. She went in. The light from the windows silvered the large lenses of Miss Perry’s glasses. In her long white nightgown and bed jacket, she looked like a snowy owl.
“Elsie.”
The sound of her name went through her. It had the odd effect of erasing her. It was a relief. It brought her to Miss Perry as a very simple organism.
“Elsie. Sit here.” Miss Perry moved her hand across the bed. Elsie sat. At this angle she could see Miss Perry’s eyes, one opened wider than the other. “I want to talk.” She waved her right hand back and forth without lifting it from the bedspread. She looked at her hand and said, “That means I’m laughing.” The right side of her mouth smiled.
“Yes,” Elsie said. “What are you laughing at?”
Miss Perry crooked her forefinger and slowly raised it. At last it reached the top of her head and tapped once. Then her hand seemed to dribble down back to the bed. She said, “Think.”
“All right. I’m thinking. You said my name … You know Captain Teixeira?”
Miss Perry shook her head. “Things.” She looked out the window.
“Tree.”
“Yes. Tree.”
She waved her right hand. Not a laugh. “Things you know. I know. More words for trees.”
“Oh. Ash. That tree is an ash.”
“Yes. Ash. Say a tree I don’t see.”
“Beech. The copper beech in front.” Miss Perry nodded. “All right. Sycamore. By my pond. It always looks like it’s peeling,” Miss Perry added. “And there’s the white oak beside it.” Miss Perry moved her hand, this time a laugh. Elsie said, “What’s funny?”
“
Quercus alba.
” Miss Perry touched her head again and said, “Odd. I know Latin. I don’t know
beside.
”
Elsie was afraid she was going to cry. She squinted and squeezed her nose as if stopping a sneeze. She said, “Beside.” She held out one hand, put the other out. “This hand is beside that hand.”
“Odd,” Miss Perry said. She closed her eyes. She lay back and waved her hand at her hip.
Elsie said, “Do you want to lie down?”
“Yes.” Elsie reached under the covers to slide her down. As Elsie touched her, Miss Perry’s eyes opened. She said, “I remember. When it was odd, I called the telephone. I called
you.
”
“Yes. Let me take your glasses off.”
Miss Perry’s eyes were blurry for a moment, then grew distinct. “You came. I said … Did I say thank you?”
“I’m sure you did.”
“You talked. You said trees. The same trees.”
“That’s right.”
“I remember the men came. The … car. Not a car. What is it?”
“Ambulance. We’ll talk tomorrow. You’ll remember it all tomorrow.”
“And the baby.”
Elsie said, “Yes, that’s right,” as if Miss Perry were a child trying to put off bedtime by saying to the grown-up reaching for the light switch, “I remember …”—what she saw at the beach, what she ate that day that was good for her, the end of a fairy tale.
chapter thirteen
E lsie was to meet Mr. Bienvenue at Miss Perry’s house at eight in the evening. She sent the night nurse, Nancy Tran, to babysit Rose. Elsie set out the memoranda, appointment books, and letters on Miss Perry’s desk. She laid a fire in the fireplace. She was still in her uniform, thought of going back to change, thought Mr. Bienvenue might
As she went up the stairs Elsie thought she’d just done a Jack. Not the stony-faced wait-’em-out Jack but the nipping-at-your-heels border-collie Jack. Couldn’t be helped; the woman was driving her nuts.
She trotted up quickly, a last little display of border collie. She slowed in the dark hallway. She’d never been in this part of the house. She stopped short in front of the half-open door. To go into Miss Perry’s bedroom seemed a terrible intimacy.
She knocked. Miss Perry’s voice floated to her, a single unsteady note. She went in. The light from the windows silvered the large lenses of Miss Perry’s glasses. In her long white nightgown and bed jacket, she looked like a snowy owl.
“Elsie.”
The sound of her name went through her. It had the odd effect of erasing her. It was a relief. It brought her to Miss Perry as a very simple organism.
“Elsie. Sit here.” Miss Perry moved her hand across the bed. Elsie sat. At this angle she could see Miss Perry’s eyes, one opened wider than the other. “I want to talk.” She waved her right hand back and forth without lifting it from the bedspread. She looked at her hand and said, “That means I’m laughing.” The right side of her mouth smiled.
“Yes,” Elsie said. “What are you laughing at?”
Miss Perry crooked her forefinger and slowly raised it. At last it reached the top of her head and tapped once. Then her hand seemed to dribble down back to the bed. She said, “Think.”
“All right. I’m thinking. You said my name … You know Captain Teixeira?”
Miss Perry shook her head. “Things.” She looked out the window.
“Tree.”
“Yes. Tree.”
She waved her right hand. Not a laugh. “Things you know. I know. More words for trees.”
“Oh. Ash. That tree is an ash.”
“Yes. Ash. Say a tree I don’t see.”
“Beech. The copper beech in front.” Miss Perry nodded. “All right. Sycamore. By my pond. It always looks like it’s peeling,” Miss Perry added. “And there’s the white oak beside it.” Miss Perry moved her hand, this time a laugh. Elsie said, “What’s funny?”
“
Quercus alba.
” Miss Perry touched her head again and said, “Odd. I know Latin. I don’t know
beside.
”
Elsie was afraid she was going to cry. She squinted and squeezed her nose as if stopping a sneeze. She said, “Beside.” She held out one hand, put the other out. “This hand is beside that hand.”
“Odd,” Miss Perry said. She closed her eyes. She lay back and waved her hand at her hip.
Elsie said, “Do you want to lie down?”
“Yes.” Elsie reached under the covers to slide her down. As Elsie touched her, Miss Perry’s eyes opened. She said, “I remember. When it was odd, I called the telephone. I called
you.
”
“Yes. Let me take your glasses off.”
Miss Perry’s eyes were blurry for a moment, then grew distinct. “You came. I said … Did I say thank you?”
“I’m sure you did.”
“You talked. You said trees. The same trees.”
“That’s right.”
“I remember the men came. The … car. Not a car. What is it?”
“Ambulance. We’ll talk tomorrow. You’ll remember it all tomorrow.”
“And the baby.”
Elsie said, “Yes, that’s right,” as if Miss Perry were a child trying to put off bedtime by saying to the grown-up reaching for the light switch, “I remember …”—what she saw at the beach, what she ate that day that was good for her, the end of a fairy tale.
chapter thirteen
E lsie was to meet Mr. Bienvenue at Miss Perry’s house at eight in the evening. She sent the night nurse, Nancy Tran, to babysit Rose. Elsie set out the memoranda, appointment books, and letters on Miss Perry’s desk. She laid a fire in the fireplace. She was still in her uniform, thought of going back to change, thought Mr. Bienvenue might
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