after spending a little time with her was, well, out of his mind. Reassured by that revelation of humanness, she began to feel a little better about Arne Horsfall, not so unhappy to have him around.
Enid slipped an arm gracefully inside Mr. Horsfall's and Ted smiled as if he were really looking forward to an afternoon of talking hunting and fishing with their guest. They all went into the house by the front door.
In the kitchen Marjory looked again at the golden hen in the oven, then set out a pitcher of lemonade and glasses on the heirloom silver tray they had been tempted to sell when funds were critically low. But selling the few handed-down treasures her mother had loved seemed a betrayal. Ada May Waller had never been one to put on airs, but she was a genealogy buff who knew intimately every sprig of a family tree that included persons of quality in Scotland and England. Enid had her mother's inbred sense of style and propriety. Marjory sometimes joked about herself that she looked like the family cleric who had been fond of charbroiling heretics; but the joke could be painful.
She carried the tray with the lemonade into the parlor, where daylong light filtered through the oak tree that, like a big green cumulus cloud, sheltered nearly the full front of their clapboard house.
Arne Horsfall, still clutching his sketchbook under one arm, was touring the walls of the parlor, where many portraits and photographs of forebears—men and women anciently composed in too much clothing and with their hair parted down the middle—had been hanging since before Enid was born. He seemed momentarily fascinated by a stuffed red squirrel, up on its hind legs and with forepaws spread in a menacing way, as if it had grizzly genes. Marjory reckoned that it might become tedious talking to a man who couldn't respond, although Enid didn't seem fazed. She could talk on and on about things that would bore most people to tears, yet Enid was never boring because her voice, her natural cadences, were so pleasing that words didn't matter. Ted watched her as if he truly appreciated how lucky he was.
Marjory placed the tray on a table in front of one of the rigorously uncomfortable horsehair sofas and poured lemonade.
"Anything interesting happening in your life?"
Ted replied in a low voice, "Well, I was shot at last night."
"What? You're kidding!" Thrilled and apprehensive, Marjory inspected him quickly for damages. Ted shrugged. "They missed, huh? What happened?"
"Oh, it was about nine o'clock over on Deacon's Mill Road. A car was in the ditch and the wrecker was there. Traffic was moving okay. I never heard the shot, but it busted one of my reds to smithereens. I was standing a couple of feet away. Couldn't identify where the shot came from, or who fired it. Probably some yahoo in a pickup who got a speeding ticket last week, and wanted to take it out on me."
"That must have given you the runs."
Ted shrugged again, a little proud of his grit under fire. "Nah. Those things happen. Listen, maybe you better not say anything to Enid—you know how she is."
"Hey, Enid, have I got news for you!"
Enid turned, smiling. "What?"
Ted said quickly, "Thought you all might like to catch Bob Dylan at the Parthenon next weekend."
"Wonderful."
Marjory handed up two glasses of lemonade. Ted sat back on the sofa, looking painfully amused. "Anything else I can do, Marjory?"
Marjory, wide-eyed, shook her head. "Oh, no, Ted. Bob Dylan sounds terrific. And it's so thoughtful to invite me. I just never seem to go anywhere lately."
Arne Horsfall sat on the edge of a Queen Anne chair with his sketchbook in his lap. He sipped lemonade and, for the most part, looked at Enid. The ceiling fan shuddered annoyingly but kept them cool. Ted commented, as he usually did, "I need to fix that thing the next time I'm over." Enid talked about the art class she conducted at Cumberland State, and the surprising number of her students who were doing original and
Enid slipped an arm gracefully inside Mr. Horsfall's and Ted smiled as if he were really looking forward to an afternoon of talking hunting and fishing with their guest. They all went into the house by the front door.
In the kitchen Marjory looked again at the golden hen in the oven, then set out a pitcher of lemonade and glasses on the heirloom silver tray they had been tempted to sell when funds were critically low. But selling the few handed-down treasures her mother had loved seemed a betrayal. Ada May Waller had never been one to put on airs, but she was a genealogy buff who knew intimately every sprig of a family tree that included persons of quality in Scotland and England. Enid had her mother's inbred sense of style and propriety. Marjory sometimes joked about herself that she looked like the family cleric who had been fond of charbroiling heretics; but the joke could be painful.
She carried the tray with the lemonade into the parlor, where daylong light filtered through the oak tree that, like a big green cumulus cloud, sheltered nearly the full front of their clapboard house.
Arne Horsfall, still clutching his sketchbook under one arm, was touring the walls of the parlor, where many portraits and photographs of forebears—men and women anciently composed in too much clothing and with their hair parted down the middle—had been hanging since before Enid was born. He seemed momentarily fascinated by a stuffed red squirrel, up on its hind legs and with forepaws spread in a menacing way, as if it had grizzly genes. Marjory reckoned that it might become tedious talking to a man who couldn't respond, although Enid didn't seem fazed. She could talk on and on about things that would bore most people to tears, yet Enid was never boring because her voice, her natural cadences, were so pleasing that words didn't matter. Ted watched her as if he truly appreciated how lucky he was.
Marjory placed the tray on a table in front of one of the rigorously uncomfortable horsehair sofas and poured lemonade.
"Anything interesting happening in your life?"
Ted replied in a low voice, "Well, I was shot at last night."
"What? You're kidding!" Thrilled and apprehensive, Marjory inspected him quickly for damages. Ted shrugged. "They missed, huh? What happened?"
"Oh, it was about nine o'clock over on Deacon's Mill Road. A car was in the ditch and the wrecker was there. Traffic was moving okay. I never heard the shot, but it busted one of my reds to smithereens. I was standing a couple of feet away. Couldn't identify where the shot came from, or who fired it. Probably some yahoo in a pickup who got a speeding ticket last week, and wanted to take it out on me."
"That must have given you the runs."
Ted shrugged again, a little proud of his grit under fire. "Nah. Those things happen. Listen, maybe you better not say anything to Enid—you know how she is."
"Hey, Enid, have I got news for you!"
Enid turned, smiling. "What?"
Ted said quickly, "Thought you all might like to catch Bob Dylan at the Parthenon next weekend."
"Wonderful."
Marjory handed up two glasses of lemonade. Ted sat back on the sofa, looking painfully amused. "Anything else I can do, Marjory?"
Marjory, wide-eyed, shook her head. "Oh, no, Ted. Bob Dylan sounds terrific. And it's so thoughtful to invite me. I just never seem to go anywhere lately."
Arne Horsfall sat on the edge of a Queen Anne chair with his sketchbook in his lap. He sipped lemonade and, for the most part, looked at Enid. The ceiling fan shuddered annoyingly but kept them cool. Ted commented, as he usually did, "I need to fix that thing the next time I'm over." Enid talked about the art class she conducted at Cumberland State, and the surprising number of her students who were doing original and
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