convalescence— which I calculated must have been exactly two weeks after the train wreck—I was able to get out of bed and sit in a chair by the window. Of course I did not accomplish this feat alone. I had the help of both Norma and Tabitha, wives three and four respectively. Having shifted me from bed to chair, Norma was impatient to be on her way, but Tabitha stayed behind and began to tidy the room by remaking the bed.
I felt as if the weight of the world were upon me. Being able to sit up in a chair was encouraging, but looking out of that window was not. The view only emphasized the extreme remoteness of our surroundings.
Better, then, to watch Tabitha. Perhaps I could draw her into conversation. I did not want the wives to see me as a rival, but I feared they already did. Or rather three of them did. Verla's attitude seemed completely neutral, I supposed because she was first wife; and Selene was so young that she did not seem to me anything like a wife at all, but more like a younger sister.
Tabitha had a soothing, quiet presence. She did not bustle about, but rather her motions were both deliberate and graceful.
Impulsively I asked, "Is dancing against your religion?"
She looked up, wide-eyed, as if amazed that I would speak to her. "No," she replied. That was all; she did not inquire as to why I'd asked, or volunteer any information of her own, but returned to tucking the top sheet under the mattress at the foot of the bed.
Tabitha was quite attractive in her own quiet way. She was of average height and build, with regular features, neither pretty nor plain but somewhere in between. Her hair was light brown and had a tendency to curl around her face, though she had arranged it in a figure-eight bun on the nape of her neck. She wore a brown woolen dress with buttons all down the front, to which she had added a white collar and cuffs trimmed with tatted lace. Lace, no apron — pretty fancy for a Pratt woman, I thought. Perhaps she was going into town?
"I asked," I said, venturing further, "about the dancing because you have such a graceful way of moving. I thought perhaps you might dance, yourself."
"Oh, my goodness, no." Surprised, Tabitha paused in the act of shaking out one of the feather pillows. A smile curved her faintly pink lips, and suddenly I saw what Melancthon must have seen when he'd chosen her to be wife number four: a gentle sweetness that was quite appealing. She gave the pillow a final shake and put it down in place, smoothing the pillowcase with her hand as she rather shyly admitted, "I do know how, though. When I was a child in town, we danced some. But, well, I suppose Father isn't much of a one for dancing."
"No, I suppose not."
She went around the bed to repeat the process with the pillow on the other side, while I returned my gaze to the view out the window.
"We appear to be hemmed in by mountains on all sides," I remarked.
The reticent Tabitha did not respond.
"Of course," I went on, "the view from other parts of the house may be different. I have no frame of reference here beyond this very room. I am beginning to feel positively claustrophobic."
"I don't know that word." Tabitha had finished with the bed now, and moved over to dust the dresser and the chest of drawers, picking up objects and putting them down again so carefully that she made not a single sound.
"Claustrophobic?" I glanced swiftly her way, not wanting to appear too eager to involve her in conversation, for fear that she would bolt. She had that doe-like quality about her. I explained, "It means a fear of being confined in a small or tight space. It is a word of Latin origin, used by doctors of psychiatry and people of that sort, who study the workings of the mind. I'm very interested in such things," I said with a shrug, a gesture I meant to imply my understanding that most people were not. And then I looked out the window again, as if I did not care a bit whether she continued talking to me.
"You are well
I felt as if the weight of the world were upon me. Being able to sit up in a chair was encouraging, but looking out of that window was not. The view only emphasized the extreme remoteness of our surroundings.
Better, then, to watch Tabitha. Perhaps I could draw her into conversation. I did not want the wives to see me as a rival, but I feared they already did. Or rather three of them did. Verla's attitude seemed completely neutral, I supposed because she was first wife; and Selene was so young that she did not seem to me anything like a wife at all, but more like a younger sister.
Tabitha had a soothing, quiet presence. She did not bustle about, but rather her motions were both deliberate and graceful.
Impulsively I asked, "Is dancing against your religion?"
She looked up, wide-eyed, as if amazed that I would speak to her. "No," she replied. That was all; she did not inquire as to why I'd asked, or volunteer any information of her own, but returned to tucking the top sheet under the mattress at the foot of the bed.
Tabitha was quite attractive in her own quiet way. She was of average height and build, with regular features, neither pretty nor plain but somewhere in between. Her hair was light brown and had a tendency to curl around her face, though she had arranged it in a figure-eight bun on the nape of her neck. She wore a brown woolen dress with buttons all down the front, to which she had added a white collar and cuffs trimmed with tatted lace. Lace, no apron — pretty fancy for a Pratt woman, I thought. Perhaps she was going into town?
"I asked," I said, venturing further, "about the dancing because you have such a graceful way of moving. I thought perhaps you might dance, yourself."
"Oh, my goodness, no." Surprised, Tabitha paused in the act of shaking out one of the feather pillows. A smile curved her faintly pink lips, and suddenly I saw what Melancthon must have seen when he'd chosen her to be wife number four: a gentle sweetness that was quite appealing. She gave the pillow a final shake and put it down in place, smoothing the pillowcase with her hand as she rather shyly admitted, "I do know how, though. When I was a child in town, we danced some. But, well, I suppose Father isn't much of a one for dancing."
"No, I suppose not."
She went around the bed to repeat the process with the pillow on the other side, while I returned my gaze to the view out the window.
"We appear to be hemmed in by mountains on all sides," I remarked.
The reticent Tabitha did not respond.
"Of course," I went on, "the view from other parts of the house may be different. I have no frame of reference here beyond this very room. I am beginning to feel positively claustrophobic."
"I don't know that word." Tabitha had finished with the bed now, and moved over to dust the dresser and the chest of drawers, picking up objects and putting them down again so carefully that she made not a single sound.
"Claustrophobic?" I glanced swiftly her way, not wanting to appear too eager to involve her in conversation, for fear that she would bolt. She had that doe-like quality about her. I explained, "It means a fear of being confined in a small or tight space. It is a word of Latin origin, used by doctors of psychiatry and people of that sort, who study the workings of the mind. I'm very interested in such things," I said with a shrug, a gesture I meant to imply my understanding that most people were not. And then I looked out the window again, as if I did not care a bit whether she continued talking to me.
"You are well
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