runner’s body incongruously topped with a decidedly indoor face.
Nora didn’t know if she’d liked the sermon or not; she’d been daydreaming, planning the rest of her garden. Could she get away with putting the second crop of beans along the back fence for another year? Or should she rotate them with the pickling cucumbers, which had been on the side fence the summer before?
“That cassock must be dreadfully hot, Charles,” Louise said when they reached the minister, whose face was streaming sweat. Her own pink features, islands in folds of damp flesh, were shiny with exuded oil that had long since absorbed their liberal ration of powder. “I imagine you’ll be glad to get it off.”
“Oh, I’m used to it, Louise, I’m used to it. And how have your parents been this week?” he asked, turning to Nora and clasping her moist hand with his own.
“Father’s been the same as always, thank you, Mr. Hastings,” Nora said primly. “But my mother’s going downhill, I’m afraid. She’s lucid less and less of the time.”
A concerned frown creased Charles’s forehead and narrowed his otherwise large eyes; he fumbled under his cassock, withdrawing a monogrammed handkerchief with which he delicately blotted his brow. “I am so sorry, my dear. Mrs. Hastings and I will stop in this week, shall we?”
“That would be lovely.” Nora forced a smile and out of the corner of her eye saw Louise nodding vigorous approval. But Nora hated those ministerial visits, full of friendly advice and demanding careful preparations. “Come for tea, perhaps Wednesday?” she asked dutifully, knowing the visit was inevitable. When the Hastingses decided to do something, it was as good as done. Putting it off till Wednesday, she calculated, would give her time to make sure the parlor was aired and dusted and would perhaps allow the heat wave to break before she had to make cookies or a cake or whatever she decided to give them. Thank goodness it was easy enough to keep the dining room off the parlor closed even when the parlor was being used; at least she wouldn’t have to dust and air both rooms.
The heat wave hadn’t broken by Wednesday, and Nora had spent Tuesday scrubbing and cleaning, though she’d wanted to plant the beans, which she’d decided to rotate with the cucumbers after all. But of course in this heat, with no rain, that would be foolish, she told herself, momentarily longing for running water, an outside faucet, and a hose.
Wednesday morning she baked, in between answering her father’s calls; he’d seemed unusually demanding after she’d helped him dress, though Corinne slept serenely. Nora had moved her mother’s bed closer to her window in the hope of catching any stray breeze, and had dressed her in her gauziest nightgown, though she’d been tempted to try to convince her to stay nude after her bath till the company was due to arrive.
Just when the cookies were nearly done, Ralph called again and Nora swore softly under her breath as she went to the door of his room—where she stopped, horrified, for he was lying on the floor, eyes closed, his limbs flailing about helplessly—like a downed elephant, Nora thought. She suppressed a giggle even as she rushed to him, worried, and knelt by his side.
“Father, what happened?” she cried, and he said, not opening his eyes, “What the hell does it look like, girl? I fell getting off this damn bed. If you’d come when I called the first time this would never have happened, but no, you had to be pottering around the kitchen making stuff for that ridiculous minister and his wife. God damn it, help me up!”
Nora closed her eyes with relief at his outburst. “Are you hurt?” she asked, opening them, layering her voice with an attempt at serious concern.
“Probably. Everything aches.” He groaned, watching her carefully. “Are you going to help me or am I going to have to die here?”
Nora put her hands under his shoulders and tugged, but he was too
Nora didn’t know if she’d liked the sermon or not; she’d been daydreaming, planning the rest of her garden. Could she get away with putting the second crop of beans along the back fence for another year? Or should she rotate them with the pickling cucumbers, which had been on the side fence the summer before?
“That cassock must be dreadfully hot, Charles,” Louise said when they reached the minister, whose face was streaming sweat. Her own pink features, islands in folds of damp flesh, were shiny with exuded oil that had long since absorbed their liberal ration of powder. “I imagine you’ll be glad to get it off.”
“Oh, I’m used to it, Louise, I’m used to it. And how have your parents been this week?” he asked, turning to Nora and clasping her moist hand with his own.
“Father’s been the same as always, thank you, Mr. Hastings,” Nora said primly. “But my mother’s going downhill, I’m afraid. She’s lucid less and less of the time.”
A concerned frown creased Charles’s forehead and narrowed his otherwise large eyes; he fumbled under his cassock, withdrawing a monogrammed handkerchief with which he delicately blotted his brow. “I am so sorry, my dear. Mrs. Hastings and I will stop in this week, shall we?”
“That would be lovely.” Nora forced a smile and out of the corner of her eye saw Louise nodding vigorous approval. But Nora hated those ministerial visits, full of friendly advice and demanding careful preparations. “Come for tea, perhaps Wednesday?” she asked dutifully, knowing the visit was inevitable. When the Hastingses decided to do something, it was as good as done. Putting it off till Wednesday, she calculated, would give her time to make sure the parlor was aired and dusted and would perhaps allow the heat wave to break before she had to make cookies or a cake or whatever she decided to give them. Thank goodness it was easy enough to keep the dining room off the parlor closed even when the parlor was being used; at least she wouldn’t have to dust and air both rooms.
The heat wave hadn’t broken by Wednesday, and Nora had spent Tuesday scrubbing and cleaning, though she’d wanted to plant the beans, which she’d decided to rotate with the cucumbers after all. But of course in this heat, with no rain, that would be foolish, she told herself, momentarily longing for running water, an outside faucet, and a hose.
Wednesday morning she baked, in between answering her father’s calls; he’d seemed unusually demanding after she’d helped him dress, though Corinne slept serenely. Nora had moved her mother’s bed closer to her window in the hope of catching any stray breeze, and had dressed her in her gauziest nightgown, though she’d been tempted to try to convince her to stay nude after her bath till the company was due to arrive.
Just when the cookies were nearly done, Ralph called again and Nora swore softly under her breath as she went to the door of his room—where she stopped, horrified, for he was lying on the floor, eyes closed, his limbs flailing about helplessly—like a downed elephant, Nora thought. She suppressed a giggle even as she rushed to him, worried, and knelt by his side.
“Father, what happened?” she cried, and he said, not opening his eyes, “What the hell does it look like, girl? I fell getting off this damn bed. If you’d come when I called the first time this would never have happened, but no, you had to be pottering around the kitchen making stuff for that ridiculous minister and his wife. God damn it, help me up!”
Nora closed her eyes with relief at his outburst. “Are you hurt?” she asked, opening them, layering her voice with an attempt at serious concern.
“Probably. Everything aches.” He groaned, watching her carefully. “Are you going to help me or am I going to have to die here?”
Nora put her hands under his shoulders and tugged, but he was too
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