the bowl, she carries Father Day’s lunch to the dining-room table, where she’s already laid a perfect place. She smiles at the sound of the front door. In the two months since she took over Vera’s duties, he’s never once been late for a meal.
She retreats to the kitchen, one ear cocked to the scrapeof his chair. Leaning into the stove, she pours a dipperful of soup through the strainer, collecting the amber broth in a cup. On her way up the stairs she pictures him eating—dunking the bread so it softens, closing his lips on the spoon.
“There you are.” Vera struggles to raise herself up on the pillow. “Come here.”
Mathilda balances her tray on one hand, drawing the door closed behind her. “Don’t try and talk, Aunt,” she says gently. “You need your strength.”
“What for? To die?”
“Hush.”
“I won’t hush, I’ll have plenty of quiet soon enough.” She hooks a finger into the pocket of Mathilda’s apron. “I made myself an old maid for him, is that what you think?”
“No. No, Aunt.”
“Well, it wasn’t like that. He was God’s territory, all right, but I set up house in a little corner of him all the same. Like a squatter,” she says giddily, then sinks back into her pillow, spent.
A squatter? Mathilda pictures her aunt sitting neatly, almost daintily, in her chair before the fire, Father Rock pacing close with a fistful of pages, pausing now and then to mumble a line aloud, or to shove a scribbled passage between Vera’s gaze and the lacework in her lap. If Vera was a squatter, what did that make Mathilda—kneeling at the edge of the rug with the dogs splayed out between her and the hearth, or bent over her schoolbooks at the kitchen table, or staring holes in the blue rose wallpaper of her tiny room?
“I knew it was in there.” Vera’s voice makes her jump. “I’ve been having the pains for more than a year.”
Mathilda sets down the tray. “You knew?” She feels for the chair back and sits down hard.
Vera nods. “At first I thought it was my sin. You know, loving him—impurely for all those years. Who knows, maybe it is.”
“No!” The protest leaps from Mathilda’s mouth, startling them both. “I mean, you’re not—you’re a good woman.”
“Maybe.” Vera smiles thinly. “Anyway, whatever I thought, I fought it. Gritted my teeth when it flared up and forgot it the moment it settled down.” She pauses, her voice hollow when she speaks again. “I gave in to it when he died.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I said, I gave in. More than that, I egged it on. When the pain came, I opened the gates and let it run. I’d lie in bed at night stroking where I thought the tumour might be.” She lifts her eyes to meet Mathilda’s horrified gaze. “It’s true. I talked to it, still do.
Grow.”
She pats her distended belly. “Come on, you little bastard, grow.”
ET A TE NUMQUAM SEPARARI PERMITTAS
(
and never suffer me to be separated from thee
)
Morphine’s softened the housekeeper—she looks up without a trace of hostility as August utters the entrance blessing and steps awkwardly into her room. Mathilda turns on her chair, watching him steadily in the vanity mirror.
“Leave us alone now,” the housekeeper says mildly.
“Yes, Aunt.” Mathilda rises, passing close by August on her way out the door.
“That’s not necessary,” he blurts. “I mean, family are welcome.”
But the housekeeper waves her chicken-foot hand. “Go on.”
Repeated visits haven’t steeled him to the smell. The sound of the door closing fills him with an acute and irrational dread, as though he’s just been sealed into a crypt. After a moment’s ignoble hesitation, he pushes the feeling aside and takes a lunging step toward the bed. He hurriedly arranges the Blessed Sacrament and the oil of extreme unction on the night table, then mumbles his way around the little room, shaking droplets of holy water on the sick woman’s belongings while avoiding her
She retreats to the kitchen, one ear cocked to the scrapeof his chair. Leaning into the stove, she pours a dipperful of soup through the strainer, collecting the amber broth in a cup. On her way up the stairs she pictures him eating—dunking the bread so it softens, closing his lips on the spoon.
“There you are.” Vera struggles to raise herself up on the pillow. “Come here.”
Mathilda balances her tray on one hand, drawing the door closed behind her. “Don’t try and talk, Aunt,” she says gently. “You need your strength.”
“What for? To die?”
“Hush.”
“I won’t hush, I’ll have plenty of quiet soon enough.” She hooks a finger into the pocket of Mathilda’s apron. “I made myself an old maid for him, is that what you think?”
“No. No, Aunt.”
“Well, it wasn’t like that. He was God’s territory, all right, but I set up house in a little corner of him all the same. Like a squatter,” she says giddily, then sinks back into her pillow, spent.
A squatter? Mathilda pictures her aunt sitting neatly, almost daintily, in her chair before the fire, Father Rock pacing close with a fistful of pages, pausing now and then to mumble a line aloud, or to shove a scribbled passage between Vera’s gaze and the lacework in her lap. If Vera was a squatter, what did that make Mathilda—kneeling at the edge of the rug with the dogs splayed out between her and the hearth, or bent over her schoolbooks at the kitchen table, or staring holes in the blue rose wallpaper of her tiny room?
“I knew it was in there.” Vera’s voice makes her jump. “I’ve been having the pains for more than a year.”
Mathilda sets down the tray. “You knew?” She feels for the chair back and sits down hard.
Vera nods. “At first I thought it was my sin. You know, loving him—impurely for all those years. Who knows, maybe it is.”
“No!” The protest leaps from Mathilda’s mouth, startling them both. “I mean, you’re not—you’re a good woman.”
“Maybe.” Vera smiles thinly. “Anyway, whatever I thought, I fought it. Gritted my teeth when it flared up and forgot it the moment it settled down.” She pauses, her voice hollow when she speaks again. “I gave in to it when he died.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I said, I gave in. More than that, I egged it on. When the pain came, I opened the gates and let it run. I’d lie in bed at night stroking where I thought the tumour might be.” She lifts her eyes to meet Mathilda’s horrified gaze. “It’s true. I talked to it, still do.
Grow.”
She pats her distended belly. “Come on, you little bastard, grow.”
ET A TE NUMQUAM SEPARARI PERMITTAS
(
and never suffer me to be separated from thee
)
Morphine’s softened the housekeeper—she looks up without a trace of hostility as August utters the entrance blessing and steps awkwardly into her room. Mathilda turns on her chair, watching him steadily in the vanity mirror.
“Leave us alone now,” the housekeeper says mildly.
“Yes, Aunt.” Mathilda rises, passing close by August on her way out the door.
“That’s not necessary,” he blurts. “I mean, family are welcome.”
But the housekeeper waves her chicken-foot hand. “Go on.”
Repeated visits haven’t steeled him to the smell. The sound of the door closing fills him with an acute and irrational dread, as though he’s just been sealed into a crypt. After a moment’s ignoble hesitation, he pushes the feeling aside and takes a lunging step toward the bed. He hurriedly arranges the Blessed Sacrament and the oil of extreme unction on the night table, then mumbles his way around the little room, shaking droplets of holy water on the sick woman’s belongings while avoiding her
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