Other Plans by Constance C. Greene Page A

When they’d first married, he’d been frightened at the intensity of Ceil’s cries as she lay sleeping. When he spoke to her about them, seeking the cause, she’d said simply, “I have nightmares, Henry, I always have had. I can’t stop just because I married you,” and he’d said, “Why not? I’m here to watch over you. You don’t have to worry anymore.” She’d just given him a look. Her nightmares had continued and when he asked what they were about, although he knew she thought his questions unnecessary, she felt he was prying, she always said she couldn’t remember.
    â€œHow about you?” she’d demanded. “How come you don’t ever tell me about your dreams?” Startled, he’d said, “I don’t ever dream,” which was true. And she’d said, “That’s because you have no conscience.” Maybe that was true. He didn’t think it was, but maybe she’d hit on something vital in his character.
    Just before he’d asked Ceil to marry him, he and his father had lunch together. It seemed a proper formality. That and asking Ceil’s father for her hand. He believed in going through the motions. His father had taken the news by saying, “It’s a tremendous responsibility, Henry. A wife and family. Hard work, too. A lot of forgiveness is involved. And pain, as well as joy. Families inflict wounds. A family is the most complex entity I know of. Very complex. Can’t even begin to tell you. It’s something you have to learn for yourself. If the family’s strong, there’s nothing stronger. I advise you to think long and hard before you settle into the role of a family man.” And he had. Two whole weeks he’d thought over what his father had said. In the end, Ceil’s golden arms, her walk, the way she held her head, had ensnared him. Theirs had been, still was, a splendid love affair. Those were the words he gave to it in the deep night. A splendid love affair. He would want as much for his children, for each of them to know a marriage like his and Ceil’s.
    Sleet and freezing rain slapped and tickled the windowpanes. Tomorrow would be a mess getting to the station. As he began the long slide into sleep, he thought with satisfaction that the back of February was almost broken. March heralded spring.

9
    â€œHow do you suppose they manage to make macaroni and cheese taste like live worms?” Keith poked a fork at him, just missing his nose. “It must be Gleason’s grandmother’s ancient recipe.”
    He chewed absentmindedly. “I read in the paper that people in some parts of the South eat dirt,” he said. “They dig it up and put it in paper bags and take it home. It isn’t just because they’re poor, they like the taste.”
    â€œCrazy.” Gloomily, Keith contemplated the ceiling of the dining hall, adorned with an intricate pattern of grease spots put there by expert practitioners of the ancient art of slinging butter pats. Margarine pats, to be exact.
    Outside, snow swirled, thick, wet flakes that hugged the ground and disappeared the second they hit. With any luck at all, the storm would continue through the day and night, and tomorrow the intrepid students would be free to wallow in the snow drifts, cut loose from school due to hazardous driving conditions.
    â€œWhen’re you going to Florida?” he asked, peeling an orange. He managed to do it so the skin fell away from the fruit in one unbroken arc. It was one of his talents.
    Keith’s jaws worked on the macaroni as if he’d landed a piece of underdone wild boar. He drank half a glass of milk without answering.
    â€œWhen’s the wedding?” he asked, thinking Keith hadn’t heard.
    When Keith finally looked at him, his eyes were hard and slick, without expression; a doll’s eyes, filled with the strange light that meant Keith had slid away from where