arm a squeeze of wordless sympathy and concern.
‘No. I'm not,’ Penny states confidently, sucking in her bottom lip so hard her face looks turtle-like and inappropriately comic.
‘It's been less than a month,’ Marcia almost doesn't want to remind her.
‘Twenty-four days,’ Penny shrugs.
‘Honey,’ Marcia tries to soothe though she feels impotent in the presence of such pain.
‘What am I going to do without him?’ Penny asks. ‘What else do I have?’
Suddenly, Marcia is acutely aware of the fact that her own husband is just fine. Just down the street and just fine. It's almost embarrassing. She feels guilty. And She's horribly aware that next week, she'll be swanning off to their winter home in Florida. ‘Why don't we all go to Boca for the winter?’ she says. ‘I mean, Mickey and I are planning to leave next week but there's so much room for you too. Oh say you'll come. Stay as long as you fancy. I'd love it. It would be good, Penny.’
‘I'll be fine here,’ Penny says, surprising herself at how decisive she sounds. ‘This is my home.’
‘You know you can just call whenever? Come whenever?’ Marcia says. She looks out of the window. ‘I'd better go – It's snowing hard now. You eat that soup. I'll call you later. I'll see myself out.’
‘Thanks for stopping by,’ Penny says and She's ready for Marcia to go. She wants to be on her own, free to grieve,free to drift into a space where just perhaps she might feel Bob still. A semi-dreamland.
She listens to the muffled sound of Marcia's car driving through the fresh snow and away. She turns the lights out in the sitting-room and stands in the darkness quietly. The snow sends silver glances into the room. The moonlight silhouettes the hills as a lumbering but benign presence. Penny wishes she hadn't rubbished clairvoyance and the concept of the Spirit. Because just say it is for real, say it really does exist – has she jinxed herself by being a cynic most of her life? Are you there? Can I sense you? Is that you I can hear? How was your day, honey? Can I fix you a drink? You sit yourself down in your chair. That goddam ugly chair. Let me fetch you a Scotch. Then you can tell me about your day.
‘I never even sat in that chair.’
Penny goes to it and sits down. She has no idea whether the chair is comfortable or not. It is as close as she can now get to being with Bob again. She sleeps.
Home from Home
Cat sat at the table, in the furnished flat she and Ben were renting, tracing a pattern someone else had gouged into the wood at some point. Some previous tenant with little respect, she assumed with distaste. As she ran her finger over it, she considered perhaps it wasn't wilful carving, it might even be as old as the table – a slip of the original carpenter's chisel? It was a nice piece of old farmhouse pine. Ben watched Cat work her middle finger along the furrow as if she was gouging it anew.
‘Are you OK, babe?’ he asked, looking from one tub of fresh pasta sauce to another. He held them to Cat for final selection.
‘Arabiata,’ she said. ‘I'm fine.’
‘Liar,’ said Ben. ‘What's up?’ He left the sauce to simmer and sat, cowboy style, astride the chair next to Cat. He brought his face to the level of hers. Cat looked at him, stuck out her bottom lip in an over-exaggerated pout that she knew would invite a kiss, and shrugged.
‘How are your sisters?’ he asked. ‘How's Django? Everything was all right up there, wasn't it?’
‘God, fine,’ Cat assured him. ‘I don't know. It's just thatIt's all changed a little since we've been gone. I suppose I was expecting to find my life, my family, just as I left them. As if they'd been happily freeze-framed in anticipation of my return.’
‘And?’ Ben said.
‘Now Django's going to be seventy-five,’ Cat said quietly.
‘You staying in the UK the last four years couldn't have prevented that,’ Ben pointed out.
‘And Pip is more sensible than she used to be,’
‘No. I'm not,’ Penny states confidently, sucking in her bottom lip so hard her face looks turtle-like and inappropriately comic.
‘It's been less than a month,’ Marcia almost doesn't want to remind her.
‘Twenty-four days,’ Penny shrugs.
‘Honey,’ Marcia tries to soothe though she feels impotent in the presence of such pain.
‘What am I going to do without him?’ Penny asks. ‘What else do I have?’
Suddenly, Marcia is acutely aware of the fact that her own husband is just fine. Just down the street and just fine. It's almost embarrassing. She feels guilty. And She's horribly aware that next week, she'll be swanning off to their winter home in Florida. ‘Why don't we all go to Boca for the winter?’ she says. ‘I mean, Mickey and I are planning to leave next week but there's so much room for you too. Oh say you'll come. Stay as long as you fancy. I'd love it. It would be good, Penny.’
‘I'll be fine here,’ Penny says, surprising herself at how decisive she sounds. ‘This is my home.’
‘You know you can just call whenever? Come whenever?’ Marcia says. She looks out of the window. ‘I'd better go – It's snowing hard now. You eat that soup. I'll call you later. I'll see myself out.’
‘Thanks for stopping by,’ Penny says and She's ready for Marcia to go. She wants to be on her own, free to grieve,free to drift into a space where just perhaps she might feel Bob still. A semi-dreamland.
She listens to the muffled sound of Marcia's car driving through the fresh snow and away. She turns the lights out in the sitting-room and stands in the darkness quietly. The snow sends silver glances into the room. The moonlight silhouettes the hills as a lumbering but benign presence. Penny wishes she hadn't rubbished clairvoyance and the concept of the Spirit. Because just say it is for real, say it really does exist – has she jinxed herself by being a cynic most of her life? Are you there? Can I sense you? Is that you I can hear? How was your day, honey? Can I fix you a drink? You sit yourself down in your chair. That goddam ugly chair. Let me fetch you a Scotch. Then you can tell me about your day.
‘I never even sat in that chair.’
Penny goes to it and sits down. She has no idea whether the chair is comfortable or not. It is as close as she can now get to being with Bob again. She sleeps.
Home from Home
Cat sat at the table, in the furnished flat she and Ben were renting, tracing a pattern someone else had gouged into the wood at some point. Some previous tenant with little respect, she assumed with distaste. As she ran her finger over it, she considered perhaps it wasn't wilful carving, it might even be as old as the table – a slip of the original carpenter's chisel? It was a nice piece of old farmhouse pine. Ben watched Cat work her middle finger along the furrow as if she was gouging it anew.
‘Are you OK, babe?’ he asked, looking from one tub of fresh pasta sauce to another. He held them to Cat for final selection.
‘Arabiata,’ she said. ‘I'm fine.’
‘Liar,’ said Ben. ‘What's up?’ He left the sauce to simmer and sat, cowboy style, astride the chair next to Cat. He brought his face to the level of hers. Cat looked at him, stuck out her bottom lip in an over-exaggerated pout that she knew would invite a kiss, and shrugged.
‘How are your sisters?’ he asked. ‘How's Django? Everything was all right up there, wasn't it?’
‘God, fine,’ Cat assured him. ‘I don't know. It's just thatIt's all changed a little since we've been gone. I suppose I was expecting to find my life, my family, just as I left them. As if they'd been happily freeze-framed in anticipation of my return.’
‘And?’ Ben said.
‘Now Django's going to be seventy-five,’ Cat said quietly.
‘You staying in the UK the last four years couldn't have prevented that,’ Ben pointed out.
‘And Pip is more sensible than she used to be,’
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