Father stop what he was doing and cock an ear toward some corner of the house a melody was coming from, as if wondering whether whistling really could be the housekeeping accompaniment on Lowry Hill in Minneapolis.
So, one breezelike song after another on her lips as she cleaned upstairs and down, Rose brightened the house. With the exception of the kitchen. We ate as we had always eaten, haphazardly and dully. Father right then was busier than ever with his hauling sideline, freight for the Big Ditch stacking up at the depot daily. For his part, Damon was so immersed in the scheming for the upcoming race that he didn't badger Father about the cooking situation. Toby went around looking like he was going to burst with our secret at any minute, but he put his energies into learning to whistle like Rose. And my mind was so crammed with scenarios of galloping backwardâall that week my dreams featured Eddie Turley jeering at me from a secure perch between the humps of a racing camelâthat I was useless for any other purpose.
It snuck up on me, then, when Rose managed to touch a nerve in Father about our mother. At the time, I didn't want to witness it, but I happened to be in the line of fire, clamped to a book at the kitchen table trying to keep my every thought off the race. Father had come in from his day of freighting and was washing up, and Rose had just finished her day's work, too. Although not quite.
"Oh, Oliver?" She veered from her path out the door into the kitchen, her shawl already on. "I need your guidance on one matter." She sounded troubled.
"I can always make a stab at it," came muffled as he finished toweling his face. "What's the topic under discussion?"
"Your room." Rose hesitated. "I need to know what, that is, how much you want done with it."
Father didn't say anything until he'd hung up his towel. "You mean Florence'sâmy wife's things, I take it."
"Yes. I'm sorry to bring it up, butâ"
"It's all right," he replied, although I knew better. "Just sweep and tend to the bedding in there," he told her with a slight catch in his voice. "I'll do any straightening up." He seemed to feel the need to add, "I haven't had the heart to disturb Florence's things. The time will come, but not yet."
Rose nodded, but didn't turn to go yet. With evident effort, she brought out another question:
"May I askâhow long has it been?"
"Last year." Father recognized what lay behind her asking. "And with your husband?"
"This past summer."
"Ah. That recent." Caught in grievers' etiquette, Father asked in return: "Was it sudden?"
"Very." Rose drew a faltering breath. "Heâjust went."
Father looked over at me as if he wished I didn't have to be in on this, but there I was. My eyes began to sting. I was not
the only one in the room it was happening to, I could tell. Mother's death had been hard for all of us to bear, but we had borne it, because that is what people do. I thought of it as like the cauterizing I had read about Civil War doctors doing when they performed amputations, the fierce burn sealing off the wound. Each of us showed the scar; there was no help for that. Toby did not mope often, but when he did, it ran a mile deep. Damon's temper got away from him more than it had before. As for me, I am told that for a public figure I am an exceptionally interior person, and I can't argue with that; surely I looked at life a lot more warily after it took Mother from us. In Father's case, he had our symptoms to tend to as well as his own. In short, none of us was over Mother's death, but we had adjusted to the extent we could to that missing limb of the family.
Now Father had to find it in himself to finish the exchange with Rose, and he did. "Florence"âhis voice struggled, and he gave me another difficult glanceâ"the boys' mother lasted a few weeks, after complications from a burst appendix."
Rose said how sorry she was to hear those circumstances, and turned to go. Before she did,
So, one breezelike song after another on her lips as she cleaned upstairs and down, Rose brightened the house. With the exception of the kitchen. We ate as we had always eaten, haphazardly and dully. Father right then was busier than ever with his hauling sideline, freight for the Big Ditch stacking up at the depot daily. For his part, Damon was so immersed in the scheming for the upcoming race that he didn't badger Father about the cooking situation. Toby went around looking like he was going to burst with our secret at any minute, but he put his energies into learning to whistle like Rose. And my mind was so crammed with scenarios of galloping backwardâall that week my dreams featured Eddie Turley jeering at me from a secure perch between the humps of a racing camelâthat I was useless for any other purpose.
It snuck up on me, then, when Rose managed to touch a nerve in Father about our mother. At the time, I didn't want to witness it, but I happened to be in the line of fire, clamped to a book at the kitchen table trying to keep my every thought off the race. Father had come in from his day of freighting and was washing up, and Rose had just finished her day's work, too. Although not quite.
"Oh, Oliver?" She veered from her path out the door into the kitchen, her shawl already on. "I need your guidance on one matter." She sounded troubled.
"I can always make a stab at it," came muffled as he finished toweling his face. "What's the topic under discussion?"
"Your room." Rose hesitated. "I need to know what, that is, how much you want done with it."
Father didn't say anything until he'd hung up his towel. "You mean Florence'sâmy wife's things, I take it."
"Yes. I'm sorry to bring it up, butâ"
"It's all right," he replied, although I knew better. "Just sweep and tend to the bedding in there," he told her with a slight catch in his voice. "I'll do any straightening up." He seemed to feel the need to add, "I haven't had the heart to disturb Florence's things. The time will come, but not yet."
Rose nodded, but didn't turn to go yet. With evident effort, she brought out another question:
"May I askâhow long has it been?"
"Last year." Father recognized what lay behind her asking. "And with your husband?"
"This past summer."
"Ah. That recent." Caught in grievers' etiquette, Father asked in return: "Was it sudden?"
"Very." Rose drew a faltering breath. "Heâjust went."
Father looked over at me as if he wished I didn't have to be in on this, but there I was. My eyes began to sting. I was not
the only one in the room it was happening to, I could tell. Mother's death had been hard for all of us to bear, but we had borne it, because that is what people do. I thought of it as like the cauterizing I had read about Civil War doctors doing when they performed amputations, the fierce burn sealing off the wound. Each of us showed the scar; there was no help for that. Toby did not mope often, but when he did, it ran a mile deep. Damon's temper got away from him more than it had before. As for me, I am told that for a public figure I am an exceptionally interior person, and I can't argue with that; surely I looked at life a lot more warily after it took Mother from us. In Father's case, he had our symptoms to tend to as well as his own. In short, none of us was over Mother's death, but we had adjusted to the extent we could to that missing limb of the family.
Now Father had to find it in himself to finish the exchange with Rose, and he did. "Florence"âhis voice struggled, and he gave me another difficult glanceâ"the boys' mother lasted a few weeks, after complications from a burst appendix."
Rose said how sorry she was to hear those circumstances, and turned to go. Before she did,
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