satisfied.
And who has done the right thing here? Who has been here? Who else would clean Aggie and get her meals and help her in and out of bed, and get up in the middle of the night for her? Who else, under these conditions, would touch her stained and nasty sheets?
Still, the point is to do the right thing. Not to love, or for that matter be loved.
Itâs like the bright young teachers talking about the fulfilment of their pupils, or their happiness. Just what, June would like to know, do fulfilment and happiness have to do with anything? Children are there to learn, not to be happy.
But if she is here to do the right thing, what is that? It is not necessarily mere selfishness, this wish to shift her mother. Aggie truly isnât safe, left on her own all day. Not really safe, the way she would be with professionals, people who knew what they were doing, how to handle her weight and keep an eye on her movements. If she fell down, or had some kind of attack, they would be there on the spot to lift and help her, to diagnose and fix her injuries. While in Juneâs hands she might die waiting. Safety is something. You can give up a few things to be secure. Surely at Aggieâs age thatâs not a bad bargain.
Then, too, Aggie has too much time on her hands. Itâs not healthy, having nothing to do all day but read and think and sometimes bake. There is about her occasionally a distressing sort of vagueness that suggests she could do with new interests.
In the place June is thinking of, there would be crafts and visitors and other old people, things going on, although it is admittedly difficult to picture Aggie bent over a heap of small tiles, making ceramic ashtrays for Christmas gifts, or crocheting bedspreads, and it is hard to imagine her willingly listening to visiting schoolchildren singing hymns or Christmas carols. She might argue with a roommate, and June might get calls from staff complaining of her language.
Aggieâs the one who talks of the excitement of change, who preaches new experiences. She ought to leap at this.
Juneâs heart leaps as she arrives home, late because she stopped to buy a plastic sheet (embarrassing to catch the sales clerkâs curious glance). Georgeâs car is outside, and, stepping somewhat breathlessly through the door, she hears voices in the front room: his and Aggieâs. How long has he been here? How much has she missed?
He stands. âJune, hello, I was just waiting until you got home.â He is lanky and tall, and his hands, when theyâre not working, always look a little incoherent, confused by lack of purpose. Now he moves one as if to shake her hand and then withdraws it, as if that would be too formal.
âSit down, June,â Aggie suggests. âHave a cup of tea with us. I made cookies, too.â That must be her idea of a challenge: proving competence with food. âWe were just talking about whoâs going to run for mayor this year. I was telling George your father once thought of running for council.â
âI know. You told me.â June is unhappy to hear that she sounds abrupt, almost curt. In a campaign for the doctorâs vote, Aggie is offering cookies, and June clipped words.
âApparently he almost did,â Aggie tells him. âHe didnât discuss it with me, of course, but I heard. Likely heâd have won, too, but for some reason he decided against it. I suppose he didnât like to take the chance of losing, he hated to lose, and then I donât imagine Iâd have been the ideal candidateâs wife.â
âBut tell me,â June interrupts, addressing either or both of them, âhave you figured out whatâs wrong?â
Aggie looks amused by the bluntness, George distressed. He smiles uncomfortably. âNot yet. And you mustnât tell anyone Iâve made a house call; Iâd get drummed out of the medical profession.
âBut seriously, weâve gotten
And who has done the right thing here? Who has been here? Who else would clean Aggie and get her meals and help her in and out of bed, and get up in the middle of the night for her? Who else, under these conditions, would touch her stained and nasty sheets?
Still, the point is to do the right thing. Not to love, or for that matter be loved.
Itâs like the bright young teachers talking about the fulfilment of their pupils, or their happiness. Just what, June would like to know, do fulfilment and happiness have to do with anything? Children are there to learn, not to be happy.
But if she is here to do the right thing, what is that? It is not necessarily mere selfishness, this wish to shift her mother. Aggie truly isnât safe, left on her own all day. Not really safe, the way she would be with professionals, people who knew what they were doing, how to handle her weight and keep an eye on her movements. If she fell down, or had some kind of attack, they would be there on the spot to lift and help her, to diagnose and fix her injuries. While in Juneâs hands she might die waiting. Safety is something. You can give up a few things to be secure. Surely at Aggieâs age thatâs not a bad bargain.
Then, too, Aggie has too much time on her hands. Itâs not healthy, having nothing to do all day but read and think and sometimes bake. There is about her occasionally a distressing sort of vagueness that suggests she could do with new interests.
In the place June is thinking of, there would be crafts and visitors and other old people, things going on, although it is admittedly difficult to picture Aggie bent over a heap of small tiles, making ceramic ashtrays for Christmas gifts, or crocheting bedspreads, and it is hard to imagine her willingly listening to visiting schoolchildren singing hymns or Christmas carols. She might argue with a roommate, and June might get calls from staff complaining of her language.
Aggieâs the one who talks of the excitement of change, who preaches new experiences. She ought to leap at this.
Juneâs heart leaps as she arrives home, late because she stopped to buy a plastic sheet (embarrassing to catch the sales clerkâs curious glance). Georgeâs car is outside, and, stepping somewhat breathlessly through the door, she hears voices in the front room: his and Aggieâs. How long has he been here? How much has she missed?
He stands. âJune, hello, I was just waiting until you got home.â He is lanky and tall, and his hands, when theyâre not working, always look a little incoherent, confused by lack of purpose. Now he moves one as if to shake her hand and then withdraws it, as if that would be too formal.
âSit down, June,â Aggie suggests. âHave a cup of tea with us. I made cookies, too.â That must be her idea of a challenge: proving competence with food. âWe were just talking about whoâs going to run for mayor this year. I was telling George your father once thought of running for council.â
âI know. You told me.â June is unhappy to hear that she sounds abrupt, almost curt. In a campaign for the doctorâs vote, Aggie is offering cookies, and June clipped words.
âApparently he almost did,â Aggie tells him. âHe didnât discuss it with me, of course, but I heard. Likely heâd have won, too, but for some reason he decided against it. I suppose he didnât like to take the chance of losing, he hated to lose, and then I donât imagine Iâd have been the ideal candidateâs wife.â
âBut tell me,â June interrupts, addressing either or both of them, âhave you figured out whatâs wrong?â
Aggie looks amused by the bluntness, George distressed. He smiles uncomfortably. âNot yet. And you mustnât tell anyone Iâve made a house call; Iâd get drummed out of the medical profession.
âBut seriously, weâve gotten
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