looks puzzled.
Then her face, which is long and creased with laugh lines, and also pink as if from exertion, clears. She turns to her husband, who’s shifting protectively from foot to foot beside her. “Oh, did you tell her I’m an invalid? Shevlin, I swear.” She puts her hand on the back of his leathery neck and gives it a soft squeeze, the gentlest admonition, and Mr. Bender’s face undergoes a profound change. The black eyes unfocus; a foolish half grin uncovers straight, tobacco-stained teeth. He ducks his bald head and mumbles.
“I had a valve replaced, is all.” Mrs. Bender pats her chest lightly. “I’m not only good as new, I’m better. ”
“And you’re already up and around,” I marvel. “Wow, that’s amazing.”
“They cut her open like a rabbit,” Mr. Bender says. “Had to stop her heart and then start it up again. She was in the intensive care for fifty-three hours.”
“All right, now.”
“She got this ball contraption in her chest, which they sawed right down the middle. Cracked ’er ribs—”
“Shevlin, she doesn’t want to hear that.”
Well, I do and I don’t.
“Why, look here, did you make us a casserole?” She gestures toward the bowl in her husband’s hands. “That was awfully nice, you surely didn’t have to do that.”
I begin again on how they can freeze it, they must have a refrigerator full of meals by now. Mr. Bender interrupts me.
“She can’t eat salt.”
“Oh. Uh-oh—”
“Oh, I can eat some. Let’s go in the kitchen, I bet you’d like a cup of coffee, Mrs. Bateman. Did you say Dash is your name? That’s unusual. Mine’s Cottie, my grandmother’s name. It’s not short for anything, it’s just Cottie.” With a hand on my back, she ushers me through an unused-looking formal dining room into the sunny kitchen. “Or would you rather have tea? Take a seat, sit right there—”
“She can’t drink coffee, either.” Mr. Bender has followed us in.
“Tea’s fine—anything,” I say, sitting down on a padded chair at a wooden spool table. It’s crowded with flower arrangements in baskets and jars and vases, some with the cards still in them.
“From the hospital,” Mrs. Bender explains, plopping down next to me. She’s taking deep breaths; the short walk winded her. “Silly, I should’ve left ’em there, but I can never resist flowers.”
“She had twice that many. Some died, some she left for other people. And cards like you wouldn’t believe.”
“Put the kettle on for us, would you, hon? And get down some of those cookies Gladys Lejeune brought.”
She wears her gray hair in a braid down her back. Her face is thick-skinned, not delicate, with heavy brows and a large nose and pale lips not yet thinning with age. She has a high voice, almost childish, but she tells me that’s because of the tube they put down her throat in the hospital. I guess her age at around seventy, but I still can’t decide about Mr. Bender, who never stops hovering while Cottie and I—she insists I call her that—talk about flowers and the pleasures of gardening, country life versus city life, and the fact that we both have one child, a daughter.
“Our Danielle’s in Richmond and she’s doing real well, working for a cosmetics company.”
Mr. Bender makes a sound like “Hmpf.”
“She’s got a little boy, Matthew, who we don’t see nearly enough. Seven years old, and so funny and smart—here’s his picture.” Framed, half-hidden among the flower arrangements on the table; a freckle-faced redhead in a shirt and tie, grinning for his school photo. “We’re old even for grandparents, because we had Danielle so late, me forty-one, Shevlin forty-six. We’d given up thinking we could have any, and then along comes Danielle.”
“I always wanted lots of children,” I say, drawn in by her candor, even though Mr. Bender is glaring as he sets cups of tea in front of us, put out by all this personal woman talk on such short acquaintance.
Then her face, which is long and creased with laugh lines, and also pink as if from exertion, clears. She turns to her husband, who’s shifting protectively from foot to foot beside her. “Oh, did you tell her I’m an invalid? Shevlin, I swear.” She puts her hand on the back of his leathery neck and gives it a soft squeeze, the gentlest admonition, and Mr. Bender’s face undergoes a profound change. The black eyes unfocus; a foolish half grin uncovers straight, tobacco-stained teeth. He ducks his bald head and mumbles.
“I had a valve replaced, is all.” Mrs. Bender pats her chest lightly. “I’m not only good as new, I’m better. ”
“And you’re already up and around,” I marvel. “Wow, that’s amazing.”
“They cut her open like a rabbit,” Mr. Bender says. “Had to stop her heart and then start it up again. She was in the intensive care for fifty-three hours.”
“All right, now.”
“She got this ball contraption in her chest, which they sawed right down the middle. Cracked ’er ribs—”
“Shevlin, she doesn’t want to hear that.”
Well, I do and I don’t.
“Why, look here, did you make us a casserole?” She gestures toward the bowl in her husband’s hands. “That was awfully nice, you surely didn’t have to do that.”
I begin again on how they can freeze it, they must have a refrigerator full of meals by now. Mr. Bender interrupts me.
“She can’t eat salt.”
“Oh. Uh-oh—”
“Oh, I can eat some. Let’s go in the kitchen, I bet you’d like a cup of coffee, Mrs. Bateman. Did you say Dash is your name? That’s unusual. Mine’s Cottie, my grandmother’s name. It’s not short for anything, it’s just Cottie.” With a hand on my back, she ushers me through an unused-looking formal dining room into the sunny kitchen. “Or would you rather have tea? Take a seat, sit right there—”
“She can’t drink coffee, either.” Mr. Bender has followed us in.
“Tea’s fine—anything,” I say, sitting down on a padded chair at a wooden spool table. It’s crowded with flower arrangements in baskets and jars and vases, some with the cards still in them.
“From the hospital,” Mrs. Bender explains, plopping down next to me. She’s taking deep breaths; the short walk winded her. “Silly, I should’ve left ’em there, but I can never resist flowers.”
“She had twice that many. Some died, some she left for other people. And cards like you wouldn’t believe.”
“Put the kettle on for us, would you, hon? And get down some of those cookies Gladys Lejeune brought.”
She wears her gray hair in a braid down her back. Her face is thick-skinned, not delicate, with heavy brows and a large nose and pale lips not yet thinning with age. She has a high voice, almost childish, but she tells me that’s because of the tube they put down her throat in the hospital. I guess her age at around seventy, but I still can’t decide about Mr. Bender, who never stops hovering while Cottie and I—she insists I call her that—talk about flowers and the pleasures of gardening, country life versus city life, and the fact that we both have one child, a daughter.
“Our Danielle’s in Richmond and she’s doing real well, working for a cosmetics company.”
Mr. Bender makes a sound like “Hmpf.”
“She’s got a little boy, Matthew, who we don’t see nearly enough. Seven years old, and so funny and smart—here’s his picture.” Framed, half-hidden among the flower arrangements on the table; a freckle-faced redhead in a shirt and tie, grinning for his school photo. “We’re old even for grandparents, because we had Danielle so late, me forty-one, Shevlin forty-six. We’d given up thinking we could have any, and then along comes Danielle.”
“I always wanted lots of children,” I say, drawn in by her candor, even though Mr. Bender is glaring as he sets cups of tea in front of us, put out by all this personal woman talk on such short acquaintance.
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