her husband’s salvation. Or, if not the ambulance people, then she herself, who had calmly dialed the number and explained the situation and given the address without the slightest hysteria. Had she not practiced that drill every night for nearly three years, and responded with skill and courage? All her daughter had succeeded in doing was fracturing Mather Grouse’s jaw.
Now, with Mather in the hospital again, things were bitterly civil between Mrs. Grouse and Anne, who stayed strictly in the upstairs flat where she and Randall lived.They took turns visiting him and could not agree on his condition when they compared notes.
“I think he’s going to be
just
fine,” said Mrs. Grouse when her daughter stopped downstairs on her way to work.
“Not fine, Mother. Just out of immediate danger. Have you made arrangements for the oxygen yet?”
“That’s for your father to decide, dear,” Mrs. Grouse said, her lips thinning perceptibly, as they did whenever Anne stepped across the invisible line. “But I can tell you right now he won’t have one of those big tanks sitting in the middle of the room for everyone to see. He’s a proud man.”
“As long as he’s alive.”
Mrs. Grouse set her jaw firmly. “Don’t start worrying him as soon as he gets home. You know what upsets do to him.”
“I know what not being able to breathe does to him. I don’t understand what you have against the idea.”
“Me?” Mrs. Grouse pretended surprise, though she hated the prospect of an oxygen tank in the house. They were not only huge and ugly, but dangerous, too, or so Mrs. Grouse suspected. She knew the tanks were filled under enormous pressure, and she was unable to dispel from her imagination the possibility that the cap might come off one day and the tank fly around the room like a leaking balloon, bouncing off the walls, killing them all in the process before crashing through the front window and coming to rest in the middle of the street. “It hasn’t a thing in the world to do with me,” Mrs. Grouse said. “I just won’t have your father killed with all these upsets.”
Anne stopped at the door and turned to face her.“We both know what he’s going to die of, Mother.”
Confronted with this obvious truth, Mrs. Grouse did what worked best in such situations. She changed the subject. “I think I’ll have a pot roast for his first supper home. And banana cream pie for dessert.”
“Whatever,” Anne said. “Do you want me to pick anything up on the way home?”
“Like what?”
“Like a pot roast? Or bananas?”
“Don’t be silly. I’ll go right down to Howard’s.”
“I didn’t think I was being silly, Mother. I was offering to save you a trip.”
“What trip? Two itty-bitty blocks.”
“Fine.”
“I don’t like things from those big supermarkets anyway.”
Anne knew the best thing was to let her mother have her own way, since she’d end up doing as she pleased regardless. “Don’t plan on me,” she told Mrs. Grouse. “I’ve missed a lot of work and tomorrow’s Friday. I’ll probably have to stay late.”
“I think that’s terrible,” said Mrs. Grouse, who never missed an opportunity to suggest that Anne was ill-treated at work.
“I’ll tell my boss. He always looks forward to hearing your opinion.”
“Well, I mean really.…” Mrs. Grouse elaborated, “I never heard of such a thing.”
Anne resisted the impulse to tell her mother that there was a good deal she’d never heard of. Married to Mather Grouse at seventeen, she had never held a job outside the home she ruled as absolute mistress, whereas Anne, since her divorce, had been a professionalwoman and took pride in it, something Mrs. Grouse had no experience of. During the years Anne and Randall spent in New York, she and her mother remained at cross-purposes, Mrs. Grouse doling out advice in long letters to a daughter whose life was already broader and deeper by half.
“When Randall gets home, I want him to
Now, with Mather in the hospital again, things were bitterly civil between Mrs. Grouse and Anne, who stayed strictly in the upstairs flat where she and Randall lived.They took turns visiting him and could not agree on his condition when they compared notes.
“I think he’s going to be
just
fine,” said Mrs. Grouse when her daughter stopped downstairs on her way to work.
“Not fine, Mother. Just out of immediate danger. Have you made arrangements for the oxygen yet?”
“That’s for your father to decide, dear,” Mrs. Grouse said, her lips thinning perceptibly, as they did whenever Anne stepped across the invisible line. “But I can tell you right now he won’t have one of those big tanks sitting in the middle of the room for everyone to see. He’s a proud man.”
“As long as he’s alive.”
Mrs. Grouse set her jaw firmly. “Don’t start worrying him as soon as he gets home. You know what upsets do to him.”
“I know what not being able to breathe does to him. I don’t understand what you have against the idea.”
“Me?” Mrs. Grouse pretended surprise, though she hated the prospect of an oxygen tank in the house. They were not only huge and ugly, but dangerous, too, or so Mrs. Grouse suspected. She knew the tanks were filled under enormous pressure, and she was unable to dispel from her imagination the possibility that the cap might come off one day and the tank fly around the room like a leaking balloon, bouncing off the walls, killing them all in the process before crashing through the front window and coming to rest in the middle of the street. “It hasn’t a thing in the world to do with me,” Mrs. Grouse said. “I just won’t have your father killed with all these upsets.”
Anne stopped at the door and turned to face her.“We both know what he’s going to die of, Mother.”
Confronted with this obvious truth, Mrs. Grouse did what worked best in such situations. She changed the subject. “I think I’ll have a pot roast for his first supper home. And banana cream pie for dessert.”
“Whatever,” Anne said. “Do you want me to pick anything up on the way home?”
“Like what?”
“Like a pot roast? Or bananas?”
“Don’t be silly. I’ll go right down to Howard’s.”
“I didn’t think I was being silly, Mother. I was offering to save you a trip.”
“What trip? Two itty-bitty blocks.”
“Fine.”
“I don’t like things from those big supermarkets anyway.”
Anne knew the best thing was to let her mother have her own way, since she’d end up doing as she pleased regardless. “Don’t plan on me,” she told Mrs. Grouse. “I’ve missed a lot of work and tomorrow’s Friday. I’ll probably have to stay late.”
“I think that’s terrible,” said Mrs. Grouse, who never missed an opportunity to suggest that Anne was ill-treated at work.
“I’ll tell my boss. He always looks forward to hearing your opinion.”
“Well, I mean really.…” Mrs. Grouse elaborated, “I never heard of such a thing.”
Anne resisted the impulse to tell her mother that there was a good deal she’d never heard of. Married to Mather Grouse at seventeen, she had never held a job outside the home she ruled as absolute mistress, whereas Anne, since her divorce, had been a professionalwoman and took pride in it, something Mrs. Grouse had no experience of. During the years Anne and Randall spent in New York, she and her mother remained at cross-purposes, Mrs. Grouse doling out advice in long letters to a daughter whose life was already broader and deeper by half.
“When Randall gets home, I want him to
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