but it was a June afternoon. Helen was certain they wouldn’t waste firewood. How much would the temperature have to plummet before a fire was allowed?
The main floor consisted of exactly two rooms: a parlor area and the kitchen at the rear. There was a flight of stairs off to her left that had to lead up to bedrooms.
The front room offered more unpainted, weathered wood and a low ceiling that made the space seem much too tiny. It was jammed with their furniture from Maywood. In the rundown setting, the sofa, hutch, and other items seemed absurd, the doilies and lace curtains pilfered from some other house, in some other world, and dropped into this house by mistake.
“Ma,” he called again, and he proceeded to the kitchen.
Helen followed.
Florence was seated at the table, blindly staring out the window.
She’d never been particularly handsome or robust, but the changes wrought in three years were shocking. She was short and had been pleasingly plump, but now, she was rail thin, her face lined with fatigue. Her gray hair was lifeless, her gray eyes the same.
“Ma,” Albert snapped with exasperation, “we’re home.”
His sharp tone yanked Florence to her senses. She blinked once, then her vision cleared, as if she was waking up from a deep sleep.
“Albert?” She was very confused. “What is it?”
“I’ve brought Helen and Violet,” he repeated. “I went to Prairie City to fetch them in the wagon. Remember?”
“Oh…yes. Of course, I remember.” She pushed herself to her feet, hands extended in welcome. “Helen, I’m so glad you’re here.”
“I’m glad, too, Florence.”
Florence smiled, but her look was vacant, as if she wasn’t sure who Helen was. Florence was forty-five, so she wasn’t growing senile. What could be ailing her?
“How was your trip?” Florence inquired.
“Fine. Long.”
Helen laughed, but Florence didn’t laugh in return.
“Where is Pa?” Albert asked. “Where are Carl and Robert?”
Carl and Robert were Albert’s younger brothers, age ten and twelve.
“They’re out…with the cattle?”
“Well, I know that. I meant where with the cattle.”
“I have no idea. They’ll be in for supper.”
“Yes, they will, now listen,” Albert said, but Florence had stopped paying attention. She was peering out the window again.
Helen peeked out, too, trying to see what was holding her so rapt, but there were only the rolling plains, with some white buttes shimmering on the horizon.
“I’m taking Helen and Violet out to my house,” Albert told his mother, “to unload their things.”
“All right,” Florence mumbled.
“You have to get started on your chores. You have to have supper ready on time, or Pa will be angry. He wants food on the table at eight.”
Florence frowned. “He certainly does.”
“Don’t be daydreaming. We’ll be back in an hour or so to help, but you need to begin on your own.”
“I will, I will.”
She glanced at the stove as if she didn’t recognize it, as if she’d never learned how to prepare a meal.
Albert clasped Helen’s arm and led her away. When they stepped outside, she drew in several deep breaths. She felt as if there had been no air in the kitchen, as if she’d been suffocating.
“What’s wrong with Florence?” she asked. It appeared that he would attempt to whitewash her condition, and Helen said, “Don’t you dare tell me she’s fine.”
“No, she’s had some struggles,” he admitted.
“What was she staring at out that window?”
“We have a little cemetery up on the hill.”
“Oh.”
“Arthur is buried there. And she lost a couple of babies.”
“A couple?”
“Three.”
“One each year,” Helen murmured.
“Every death was a nightmare for her, and Arthur’s was the worst of all. She’s a bit…disconnected, but she’ll get better now that you’re here.”
I don’t see how, Helen nearly replied, but she kept that opinion to herself.
“Let’s go over to our house,”
The main floor consisted of exactly two rooms: a parlor area and the kitchen at the rear. There was a flight of stairs off to her left that had to lead up to bedrooms.
The front room offered more unpainted, weathered wood and a low ceiling that made the space seem much too tiny. It was jammed with their furniture from Maywood. In the rundown setting, the sofa, hutch, and other items seemed absurd, the doilies and lace curtains pilfered from some other house, in some other world, and dropped into this house by mistake.
“Ma,” he called again, and he proceeded to the kitchen.
Helen followed.
Florence was seated at the table, blindly staring out the window.
She’d never been particularly handsome or robust, but the changes wrought in three years were shocking. She was short and had been pleasingly plump, but now, she was rail thin, her face lined with fatigue. Her gray hair was lifeless, her gray eyes the same.
“Ma,” Albert snapped with exasperation, “we’re home.”
His sharp tone yanked Florence to her senses. She blinked once, then her vision cleared, as if she was waking up from a deep sleep.
“Albert?” She was very confused. “What is it?”
“I’ve brought Helen and Violet,” he repeated. “I went to Prairie City to fetch them in the wagon. Remember?”
“Oh…yes. Of course, I remember.” She pushed herself to her feet, hands extended in welcome. “Helen, I’m so glad you’re here.”
“I’m glad, too, Florence.”
Florence smiled, but her look was vacant, as if she wasn’t sure who Helen was. Florence was forty-five, so she wasn’t growing senile. What could be ailing her?
“How was your trip?” Florence inquired.
“Fine. Long.”
Helen laughed, but Florence didn’t laugh in return.
“Where is Pa?” Albert asked. “Where are Carl and Robert?”
Carl and Robert were Albert’s younger brothers, age ten and twelve.
“They’re out…with the cattle?”
“Well, I know that. I meant where with the cattle.”
“I have no idea. They’ll be in for supper.”
“Yes, they will, now listen,” Albert said, but Florence had stopped paying attention. She was peering out the window again.
Helen peeked out, too, trying to see what was holding her so rapt, but there were only the rolling plains, with some white buttes shimmering on the horizon.
“I’m taking Helen and Violet out to my house,” Albert told his mother, “to unload their things.”
“All right,” Florence mumbled.
“You have to get started on your chores. You have to have supper ready on time, or Pa will be angry. He wants food on the table at eight.”
Florence frowned. “He certainly does.”
“Don’t be daydreaming. We’ll be back in an hour or so to help, but you need to begin on your own.”
“I will, I will.”
She glanced at the stove as if she didn’t recognize it, as if she’d never learned how to prepare a meal.
Albert clasped Helen’s arm and led her away. When they stepped outside, she drew in several deep breaths. She felt as if there had been no air in the kitchen, as if she’d been suffocating.
“What’s wrong with Florence?” she asked. It appeared that he would attempt to whitewash her condition, and Helen said, “Don’t you dare tell me she’s fine.”
“No, she’s had some struggles,” he admitted.
“What was she staring at out that window?”
“We have a little cemetery up on the hill.”
“Oh.”
“Arthur is buried there. And she lost a couple of babies.”
“A couple?”
“Three.”
“One each year,” Helen murmured.
“Every death was a nightmare for her, and Arthur’s was the worst of all. She’s a bit…disconnected, but she’ll get better now that you’re here.”
I don’t see how, Helen nearly replied, but she kept that opinion to herself.
“Let’s go over to our house,”
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