up until three in the morning cleaning). They used them so seldom the towels seemed to belong to someone else's house. Back in the kitchen to baste the roasting hen, Marjory heard a car on the gravel at the side of the house. She took off her apron, gave a few tugs to her tight-fitting white pique dress (it felt glued to her hips), and went outside by way of the back porch.
It was Ted in his Firebird. Marjory waved to him from the steps, simultaneously made a misstep, and caught the heel of her only pair of summer dress shoes in a crack. The heel broke before her ankle did but she went sprawling, with a yelp of indignation.
Marjory got up, red in the face, as Ted hastened from the Firebird to help her.
"Hurt yourself?"
"No." She kicked off the shoe with the broken heel and balanced on one foot so as not to list. Some high clouds blocked the sun but the day was still a humid dazzler, and she already felt as if she had been spritzed with a garden hose.
Enid picked that moment to arrive with their other dinner guest.
"What happened?"
"Oh, I caught my heel and it snapped off."
"Looks like you've got a little grass smudge on your dress."
"I'll bleach it out."
"I've probably got a pair of shoes you can squeeze into; poke around in my closet."
Marjory took the other shoe off, and looked into the eyes of Arne Horsfall, who was standing a couple of feet behind Enid with a sketchbook under one arm.
He was a lot bigger than she'd assumed he would be. Even with a pronounced stoop he was half a head taller than Ted, who went six one and a half. There was more tangly white hair growing out of Arne's ears I ban he had on his skull. His features had retreated to the bone; where there was flesh it was deeply scored. He was thin, nearly gaunt. He did not give the impression of being frail but he had a strange, hung-together look, as if he had been composed from the ill-matched bones of others. The new clothes Enid had bought him fitted okay, but they didn't suit him. He might have looked better dressed all in black. He was so quiet and somber he seemed barely alive.
Marjory had become accustomed, in her brief tour of Cumberland State, to inmates who were quenched and passionless, and others with clownish, synthetic personalities, all side effects of psychoactive drugs as powerful as rocket fuel. Arne Horsfall was a different case. He looked like a migraine felt, but he had the power to hold her attention. She had a sensation of excitement, of discovery—someone lived there, all right, behind the small, dark eyes. He was distant, but not subdued in some dire, brainwashed manner. It was as if he had learned long ago to turn most people away with the rigid cast of his face, a bloodless indifference. The better to study them, as he now studied her.
"Marjory, Ted—I'd like for you to meet Mr. Horsfall, one of my very talented students."
Ted reached around Enid with his right hand. Arne Horsfall looked at it noncommittally for several seconds, as if no one had offered to shake his hand before. Then he took it, gingerly, with a glance at Ted but no change of expression. Marjory kept her distance and smiled, with a little flickering wave of welcome; she just couldn't bring herself to touch him, that long yellow hand with brown spots like motor oil stains, and gruesome black veins.
After eyeing Ted, Arne Horsfall looked, long and searchingly, at the house. The sun came out and his eyes narrowed, he hunched his shoulders as if he found so much light punishing.
"Well, why don't we all go inside?" Enid suggested. "It was a long drive, and I'm sure Mr. Horsfall is perishing for a drink of something sweet and cold—”
Marjory observed that whenever Enid spoke, Arne Horsfall gave her his full attention, listening as if to an oracle, a saint of his realm—Marjory could have died, but, abruptly, she had a change of heart and thought, What of it? He was a man, after all, and any man no matter how aged who didn't fall in love with Enid
It was Ted in his Firebird. Marjory waved to him from the steps, simultaneously made a misstep, and caught the heel of her only pair of summer dress shoes in a crack. The heel broke before her ankle did but she went sprawling, with a yelp of indignation.
Marjory got up, red in the face, as Ted hastened from the Firebird to help her.
"Hurt yourself?"
"No." She kicked off the shoe with the broken heel and balanced on one foot so as not to list. Some high clouds blocked the sun but the day was still a humid dazzler, and she already felt as if she had been spritzed with a garden hose.
Enid picked that moment to arrive with their other dinner guest.
"What happened?"
"Oh, I caught my heel and it snapped off."
"Looks like you've got a little grass smudge on your dress."
"I'll bleach it out."
"I've probably got a pair of shoes you can squeeze into; poke around in my closet."
Marjory took the other shoe off, and looked into the eyes of Arne Horsfall, who was standing a couple of feet behind Enid with a sketchbook under one arm.
He was a lot bigger than she'd assumed he would be. Even with a pronounced stoop he was half a head taller than Ted, who went six one and a half. There was more tangly white hair growing out of Arne's ears I ban he had on his skull. His features had retreated to the bone; where there was flesh it was deeply scored. He was thin, nearly gaunt. He did not give the impression of being frail but he had a strange, hung-together look, as if he had been composed from the ill-matched bones of others. The new clothes Enid had bought him fitted okay, but they didn't suit him. He might have looked better dressed all in black. He was so quiet and somber he seemed barely alive.
Marjory had become accustomed, in her brief tour of Cumberland State, to inmates who were quenched and passionless, and others with clownish, synthetic personalities, all side effects of psychoactive drugs as powerful as rocket fuel. Arne Horsfall was a different case. He looked like a migraine felt, but he had the power to hold her attention. She had a sensation of excitement, of discovery—someone lived there, all right, behind the small, dark eyes. He was distant, but not subdued in some dire, brainwashed manner. It was as if he had learned long ago to turn most people away with the rigid cast of his face, a bloodless indifference. The better to study them, as he now studied her.
"Marjory, Ted—I'd like for you to meet Mr. Horsfall, one of my very talented students."
Ted reached around Enid with his right hand. Arne Horsfall looked at it noncommittally for several seconds, as if no one had offered to shake his hand before. Then he took it, gingerly, with a glance at Ted but no change of expression. Marjory kept her distance and smiled, with a little flickering wave of welcome; she just couldn't bring herself to touch him, that long yellow hand with brown spots like motor oil stains, and gruesome black veins.
After eyeing Ted, Arne Horsfall looked, long and searchingly, at the house. The sun came out and his eyes narrowed, he hunched his shoulders as if he found so much light punishing.
"Well, why don't we all go inside?" Enid suggested. "It was a long drive, and I'm sure Mr. Horsfall is perishing for a drink of something sweet and cold—”
Marjory observed that whenever Enid spoke, Arne Horsfall gave her his full attention, listening as if to an oracle, a saint of his realm—Marjory could have died, but, abruptly, she had a change of heart and thought, What of it? He was a man, after all, and any man no matter how aged who didn't fall in love with Enid
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