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Authors: Jon A. Jackson
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without further input. Now these buffers were dissolving, allowing her more sensory input . . . and output. No doubt, there was more to it, medically speaking, but as an explanation it sufficed for Mulheisen.
Unfortunately, as he saw it, this recovery prompted the renewed attention of Colonel Tucker and his minions. They were eager to talk to Cora Mulheisen, to learn what she might have observed just prior to the explosion. At present she wasn’t up to that. She couldn’t recall the explosion at all. She didn’t even remember going to Wards Cove. Indeed, it was difficult to know what she did remember or think, because although she could now speak hesitantly, inquire about a few simple things, she was not capable of anything like an extended conversation on topics more complex than what was for lunch, how soon would it be ready, whether it was a nice day, warm out or cold. But just in the course of a day it seemed that her perceptions and her ability to converse improved.
She was much stronger. She could walk unaided, even with a degree of energy. She ate very well and put on weight. She dressed every day, could take a sitting-down shower with only a nurse to keep an eye on her and assist with a few of the more complicated tasks. Very soon she asked Mulheisen what he was doing home.
He said he’d taken a leave of absence. He was looking after her. He didn’t know why he did not say he’d retired. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to complicate the discussion. She was quite aware that she’d suffered an injury, that she needed assistance. She wasn’t ill, though, she knew that and said as much.
“You’re back in your room,” she said. He nodded. “What happened with”—she paused and looked at a loss, then finished with—“her? The woman. Ah! Becky!” She seemed pleased to recall the name.
Mulheisen shrugged. “It didn’t work out,” he said.
“Good,” she said, and dropped the subject.
She enjoyed his readings, and the music. She was intrigued about his building project. She thought it was a good idea. “You’ll have a place to smoke those old cigars,” she said.
She also enjoyed the walks. A great day was the one on which they saw a green heron, crouching among the reeds along the river. She had noticed it first, even though it was in its camouflage posture of extending its long striped neck to emulate the reeds among which it stood. She pointed it out to Mul but he couldn’t see it.
“Some detective,” she muttered slyly. “Watch. There he is. He flattens his body, somehow. He’s just beyond that old buoy. Butorides virescens !”
Mulheisen saw the bird. With its long neck outstretched, its beak pointing directly into the sky, the stripes on its throat looked very much like the reeds among which it was standing—it even swayed when the breeze ruffled the reeds. He was amazed. How had she noticed it? The creature seemed to be another reed. But as theystealthily approached it slowly withdrew its head and neck into its now expanded body until, finally, only the tip of its beak was visible. Now it looked like nothing more than a darkish lump among the reeds, perhaps a large rock. They took a few more steps, closer, and abruptly the bird launched itself into the air with a hoarse croaking cry and spread its surprisingly large wings, flapping powerfully. It emitted a great stream of chalky white liquid as it fled across the water.
The pair of them fell back, laughing. “My god, did you see that!” she cried. As they walked home, elated, she recited: “I saw a bird up in the sky. He dropped some whitewash in my eye. Aren’t you glad that cows don’t fly?”
That evening, as they prepared to read Stevenson’s The Beach of Falesá, Cora suddenly said, “Shouldn’t you be going back to work, Feddy?”
Mulheisen didn’t know if he was more shocked at her inquiry or at her use of his childhood nickname. He stammered something like, “Ma! I’ve got plenty to do. I’m building a house. Maybe
Unfortunately, as he saw it, this recovery prompted the renewed attention of Colonel Tucker and his minions. They were eager to talk to Cora Mulheisen, to learn what she might have observed just prior to the explosion. At present she wasn’t up to that. She couldn’t recall the explosion at all. She didn’t even remember going to Wards Cove. Indeed, it was difficult to know what she did remember or think, because although she could now speak hesitantly, inquire about a few simple things, she was not capable of anything like an extended conversation on topics more complex than what was for lunch, how soon would it be ready, whether it was a nice day, warm out or cold. But just in the course of a day it seemed that her perceptions and her ability to converse improved.
She was much stronger. She could walk unaided, even with a degree of energy. She ate very well and put on weight. She dressed every day, could take a sitting-down shower with only a nurse to keep an eye on her and assist with a few of the more complicated tasks. Very soon she asked Mulheisen what he was doing home.
He said he’d taken a leave of absence. He was looking after her. He didn’t know why he did not say he’d retired. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to complicate the discussion. She was quite aware that she’d suffered an injury, that she needed assistance. She wasn’t ill, though, she knew that and said as much.
“You’re back in your room,” she said. He nodded. “What happened with”—she paused and looked at a loss, then finished with—“her? The woman. Ah! Becky!” She seemed pleased to recall the name.
Mulheisen shrugged. “It didn’t work out,” he said.
“Good,” she said, and dropped the subject.
She enjoyed his readings, and the music. She was intrigued about his building project. She thought it was a good idea. “You’ll have a place to smoke those old cigars,” she said.
She also enjoyed the walks. A great day was the one on which they saw a green heron, crouching among the reeds along the river. She had noticed it first, even though it was in its camouflage posture of extending its long striped neck to emulate the reeds among which it stood. She pointed it out to Mul but he couldn’t see it.
“Some detective,” she muttered slyly. “Watch. There he is. He flattens his body, somehow. He’s just beyond that old buoy. Butorides virescens !”
Mulheisen saw the bird. With its long neck outstretched, its beak pointing directly into the sky, the stripes on its throat looked very much like the reeds among which it was standing—it even swayed when the breeze ruffled the reeds. He was amazed. How had she noticed it? The creature seemed to be another reed. But as theystealthily approached it slowly withdrew its head and neck into its now expanded body until, finally, only the tip of its beak was visible. Now it looked like nothing more than a darkish lump among the reeds, perhaps a large rock. They took a few more steps, closer, and abruptly the bird launched itself into the air with a hoarse croaking cry and spread its surprisingly large wings, flapping powerfully. It emitted a great stream of chalky white liquid as it fled across the water.
The pair of them fell back, laughing. “My god, did you see that!” she cried. As they walked home, elated, she recited: “I saw a bird up in the sky. He dropped some whitewash in my eye. Aren’t you glad that cows don’t fly?”
That evening, as they prepared to read Stevenson’s The Beach of Falesá, Cora suddenly said, “Shouldn’t you be going back to work, Feddy?”
Mulheisen didn’t know if he was more shocked at her inquiry or at her use of his childhood nickname. He stammered something like, “Ma! I’ve got plenty to do. I’m building a house. Maybe
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