the office past seven p.m., typing out my copious notes to make them clear for Mr. Soper to read each morning. In each chart, we have food separationsâdairy, meats, vegetables, fruits; and baked goods; and foods fried, boiled, frozen; and who ate what, and when. One item keeps cross-referencing, fitting into dairy, fruit, and frozen, and evening meals, snacks, and even breakfastâI notice it keeps appearing more frequently than the others. I noted times and dates, and it seems that everyone in the family, without exception, ate peach ice cream sometime within the week preceding their illness.
I showed Mr. Soper the charts and how popular peach ice cream was at the Thompsonsâ, and such a pleased light shone from his eyes, it took my breath away. It makes me smile to think of it now. He says we will follow this lead next week.
Sometimes I have the most unusual feeling at the office, a forgetting of myself that happens when I am deep into the work of transcribing notes. I feel as if I am no longer me, but rather part of a larger thing, a giant machine with many components that functions perfectly. A machine of knowledge, one that moves our lives forward in important ways. Itâs those times when Iâm furthering our work that I am happiest.
Marm, however, seems to be in low spirits. I worry sheâs becoming lonely without me around so often. Iâve arrived at the apartment after normal hours thinking itâs empty. The front room where I write beside the window and sleep by the stove and where we keep our kitchen and bathing things is quiet and untouched, and the little back room where Marm sleeps is darkened. Evenings, when we are both home, we usually sit at our wooden table, boiling rose tea in which to dip the day-old bread that complements a warmed, fragrant spread of salted schmaltz, sharing our borrowed newspaper or occasional magazine by gaslight. Nights when Iâm late, there have been no cooking smells wafting through the rooms, and I find Marm asleep in the dark back room. She stirs when she hears me, and when she comes out, I see her eyes puffy and red, and her hair loose. Her natural beauty seems blunted then, the pretty pink of her lips and cheeks faded. It shakes me, seeingher like that, and I ask if anything is bothering her, but she claims not, and bustles about, lighting the stove and warming the chicken fat and the bread. She feeds me and asks me lots of questions about my work. She especially asks about Mr. Soper, and his behavior toward me, as if she still hears Mrs. Browningâs ugly parting words. I tell her Mr. Soper has more concern for the sewage system than for the female species. I talk about our case. Tonight I described the very possible break-through we may have, thanks to the clue of the peach ice cream. The more I spoke to her, the more she relaxed, and smiled, and even seemed satisfied we had made the right decision.
I worry my work life will take me too far from my home life, like those characters in the novel Iâve been reading,
The Jungle
, by Mr. Sinclair. Itâs a terrifying story, yet it feels trueâthe Lithuanian immigrants remind me very much of my more troubled neighbors: Too many overworked foreigners living on top of each other, sharing customs and the stink of boiled cabbage in the hallway. How lucky Marm and I are to have our little cubby of an apartment all to ourselves. I donât envy the difficulty my neighbors experience when they come to a new country where they donât speak the language and donât know the customs and sometimes have to hide their religion. We all seem to be from somewhere else, except of course theIndians, and in their exotic dress and features, they appear the most foreign of all to me.
I feel like things are changing for me and Marm, the way the light does through the seasons, rays becoming whiter in winter, thinning out, separating. We donât have enough time together anymoreâthough we
I showed Mr. Soper the charts and how popular peach ice cream was at the Thompsonsâ, and such a pleased light shone from his eyes, it took my breath away. It makes me smile to think of it now. He says we will follow this lead next week.
Sometimes I have the most unusual feeling at the office, a forgetting of myself that happens when I am deep into the work of transcribing notes. I feel as if I am no longer me, but rather part of a larger thing, a giant machine with many components that functions perfectly. A machine of knowledge, one that moves our lives forward in important ways. Itâs those times when Iâm furthering our work that I am happiest.
Marm, however, seems to be in low spirits. I worry sheâs becoming lonely without me around so often. Iâve arrived at the apartment after normal hours thinking itâs empty. The front room where I write beside the window and sleep by the stove and where we keep our kitchen and bathing things is quiet and untouched, and the little back room where Marm sleeps is darkened. Evenings, when we are both home, we usually sit at our wooden table, boiling rose tea in which to dip the day-old bread that complements a warmed, fragrant spread of salted schmaltz, sharing our borrowed newspaper or occasional magazine by gaslight. Nights when Iâm late, there have been no cooking smells wafting through the rooms, and I find Marm asleep in the dark back room. She stirs when she hears me, and when she comes out, I see her eyes puffy and red, and her hair loose. Her natural beauty seems blunted then, the pretty pink of her lips and cheeks faded. It shakes me, seeingher like that, and I ask if anything is bothering her, but she claims not, and bustles about, lighting the stove and warming the chicken fat and the bread. She feeds me and asks me lots of questions about my work. She especially asks about Mr. Soper, and his behavior toward me, as if she still hears Mrs. Browningâs ugly parting words. I tell her Mr. Soper has more concern for the sewage system than for the female species. I talk about our case. Tonight I described the very possible break-through we may have, thanks to the clue of the peach ice cream. The more I spoke to her, the more she relaxed, and smiled, and even seemed satisfied we had made the right decision.
I worry my work life will take me too far from my home life, like those characters in the novel Iâve been reading,
The Jungle
, by Mr. Sinclair. Itâs a terrifying story, yet it feels trueâthe Lithuanian immigrants remind me very much of my more troubled neighbors: Too many overworked foreigners living on top of each other, sharing customs and the stink of boiled cabbage in the hallway. How lucky Marm and I are to have our little cubby of an apartment all to ourselves. I donât envy the difficulty my neighbors experience when they come to a new country where they donât speak the language and donât know the customs and sometimes have to hide their religion. We all seem to be from somewhere else, except of course theIndians, and in their exotic dress and features, they appear the most foreign of all to me.
I feel like things are changing for me and Marm, the way the light does through the seasons, rays becoming whiter in winter, thinning out, separating. We donât have enough time together anymoreâthough we
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