interesting work. Presently Arne Horsfall's eyes closed and he appeared to fall asleep sitting up in the chair.
"Poor man," Enid murmured. She got up to gently remove the lemonade glass from his hand. His nearly lashless eyelids fluttered, then his head tilted forward another inch and they heard him snore. "But I think he's doing real well. You know, he hasn't been anywhere in donkey's years. I could just tell he was terrified in the car, all those huge trucks thundering by on the Interstate. He never shut his eyes once, though; he was so busy taking everything in. That tires out your brain if you're not accustomed to it."
"Enid, I think the chicken's about done. Should we wake him up?"
Arne Horsfall woke himself up, with a rasping snore that caused his eyes to open and his head to jerk sideways. Ted started off the sofa to keep their guest from toppling out of his chair. But Arne righted himself, then looked around uncomprehendingly, the wispy white hair clinging to the back of his head stirred by the fan paddles over them. He needed to clear his throat, which he did but with great difficulty. Marjory tried to dig her fingers into the hard, slick horsehair. Then, as if he were attracted by the cooking odors, Arne rose in the manner of stiff, old men—lurching half erect, then pausing, suspensefully, before lurching all the way up—and made his way back to the sunny kitchen. Enid, then Marjory followed.
After looking around in his rapt, obsessive manner, he moved circuitously to the screen door where he stared out at the backyard and the heat haze over the glum green surface of Crudup's pond, blinking, his eyes watering. Finally he turned to Enid as Marjory opened the oven door and brought out the roasted chicken. He began, using his hands, to silently converse with Enid, gesturing to the stove, tapping the side of his head with a long finger, always in motion like a symphony conductor hearing ghostly music, cajoling invisible instruments.
"Stove . . . this kitchen . . ." Arne nodded vigorously, and Marjory wondered how his skinny neck could stand the strain. "Reminds you . . . of where you used to live, do I have that right?" Arne nodded again, also tapping his foot in an excess of nervous release. "How long ago was that, Mr. Horsfall?" He put his hand, palm down, near his waist. Enid frowned, trying to interpret the message. "Oh! When you were a boy? I see. Where? Do you remember?" Arne shook his head this time, but gazed out again through the screen, extending a hand from the level of his brow. Marjory thought of Cochise in the movies, communicating sternly with the white-eyes. Maybe Arne Horsfall had seen the same westerns she had. It was almost funny; but the way his lips worked, and the small amount of drool he was producing in his efforts to get them to understand, didn't impress her as amusing at all—she was a little sick to her stomach.
"Were you raised on a farm?" Enid hazarded, "like Crudup's farm over there?" Arne now clasped his hands together, nodding, nodding, his sign language failing to keep pace with his thoughts, his memories. He made a steeple with his index fingers. "Church? Uh . . . your father was a preacher?" Arne shook his head. He glanced at the pots and pans hanging on racks beside the stove, took one down, ran his fingers over the copper bottom, made the sign of the steeple again. "The church you attended had a copper steeple?" Enid interpreted, her face pinked from excitement. Yes. She turned to Ted, who was standing behind her in the doorway idly swishing ice cubes in an inch of lemonade.
"Didn't our old sanctuary have a copper-covered spire?"
"Yeh . . . I think so. But it burned down, shoot, that was before I was a gleam in daddy's eye. Back about nineteen forty, forty-one."
"You were born in Sublimity!" Enid said to Arne Horsfall.
He shook off that conclusion, then spread his hands, turning toward the screen door as he did so.
"But near here. Across the river? The Cumberland or
"Poor man," Enid murmured. She got up to gently remove the lemonade glass from his hand. His nearly lashless eyelids fluttered, then his head tilted forward another inch and they heard him snore. "But I think he's doing real well. You know, he hasn't been anywhere in donkey's years. I could just tell he was terrified in the car, all those huge trucks thundering by on the Interstate. He never shut his eyes once, though; he was so busy taking everything in. That tires out your brain if you're not accustomed to it."
"Enid, I think the chicken's about done. Should we wake him up?"
Arne Horsfall woke himself up, with a rasping snore that caused his eyes to open and his head to jerk sideways. Ted started off the sofa to keep their guest from toppling out of his chair. But Arne righted himself, then looked around uncomprehendingly, the wispy white hair clinging to the back of his head stirred by the fan paddles over them. He needed to clear his throat, which he did but with great difficulty. Marjory tried to dig her fingers into the hard, slick horsehair. Then, as if he were attracted by the cooking odors, Arne rose in the manner of stiff, old men—lurching half erect, then pausing, suspensefully, before lurching all the way up—and made his way back to the sunny kitchen. Enid, then Marjory followed.
After looking around in his rapt, obsessive manner, he moved circuitously to the screen door where he stared out at the backyard and the heat haze over the glum green surface of Crudup's pond, blinking, his eyes watering. Finally he turned to Enid as Marjory opened the oven door and brought out the roasted chicken. He began, using his hands, to silently converse with Enid, gesturing to the stove, tapping the side of his head with a long finger, always in motion like a symphony conductor hearing ghostly music, cajoling invisible instruments.
"Stove . . . this kitchen . . ." Arne nodded vigorously, and Marjory wondered how his skinny neck could stand the strain. "Reminds you . . . of where you used to live, do I have that right?" Arne nodded again, also tapping his foot in an excess of nervous release. "How long ago was that, Mr. Horsfall?" He put his hand, palm down, near his waist. Enid frowned, trying to interpret the message. "Oh! When you were a boy? I see. Where? Do you remember?" Arne shook his head this time, but gazed out again through the screen, extending a hand from the level of his brow. Marjory thought of Cochise in the movies, communicating sternly with the white-eyes. Maybe Arne Horsfall had seen the same westerns she had. It was almost funny; but the way his lips worked, and the small amount of drool he was producing in his efforts to get them to understand, didn't impress her as amusing at all—she was a little sick to her stomach.
"Were you raised on a farm?" Enid hazarded, "like Crudup's farm over there?" Arne now clasped his hands together, nodding, nodding, his sign language failing to keep pace with his thoughts, his memories. He made a steeple with his index fingers. "Church? Uh . . . your father was a preacher?" Arne shook his head. He glanced at the pots and pans hanging on racks beside the stove, took one down, ran his fingers over the copper bottom, made the sign of the steeple again. "The church you attended had a copper steeple?" Enid interpreted, her face pinked from excitement. Yes. She turned to Ted, who was standing behind her in the doorway idly swishing ice cubes in an inch of lemonade.
"Didn't our old sanctuary have a copper-covered spire?"
"Yeh . . . I think so. But it burned down, shoot, that was before I was a gleam in daddy's eye. Back about nineteen forty, forty-one."
"You were born in Sublimity!" Enid said to Arne Horsfall.
He shook off that conclusion, then spread his hands, turning toward the screen door as he did so.
"But near here. Across the river? The Cumberland or
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