arrived at the same time she always did—ten minutes early. Fern let her in.
"Good morning, Alice," she said.
"Good morning, Mrs. Robinson." Fern had tried to get Alice to call her by her first name, but Alice seemed determined to keep some distance. She wasn't cold with Zeke, but with the rest of them she was always businesslike, almost formal. Fern thought she understood. It had to be hard to lose a patient every few months. Growing close to the family would only make it harder.
"He's still asleep." Fern held the door while Alice brought her bag in. "Would you like a cup of coffee?"
"Oh, that's not necessary," Alice said.
"It's no problem," Fern said.
"Black, then. And thank you." Alice hung her jacket on one of the hooks near the door. It was a cool, overcast morning, but Fern could tell that the sun would burn the clouds off in an hour or so and the day would be a hot one.
"I'll bring it in to you." Fern went to the kitchen before Alice could parry her offer with another polite protestation. Offered a drink, dessert, or a second helping, most midwesterners would respond "Oh, I shouldn't" or "No, really, I'm fine." Fern's mother, a transplanted Brit, had once brought a dinner party to a halt by taking the ritual protestations at face value and refusing to serve any more food or drinks. After twenty minutes Fern's father had taken mercy upon the squirming guests and asked them if they cared for another helping.
Fern brought the coffee to Zeke's room, where Alice was just waking him up. She set the coffee on the dresser and went to Zeke's side. He didn't speak, just squeezed her hand when she took his. She sat beside him on the bed and ran her fingers over his hair while Alice took his blood pressure and his temperature. Fern tried to pretend Alice wasn't there, that it was just Zeke and her there together, that Zeke wasn't dying and her heart wasn't breaking.
When it was time for Zeke's sponge bath Fern kissed him on the forehead and told him she loved him and smiled to show him he didn't need to exert himself to answer her.
She made an early lunch for the Carlson twins. They'd been out spraying the corn all morning, and they came back hungry. Fern watched them eat the beef stew, remembering days when Zeke came in with an appetite for more than just lunch. More than once he'd left the house just moments before the bus dropped off one of the kids, tucking in his shirt and stealing a last kiss as he ran out the door.
After the Carlson boys went back to the fields, Fern started on the bathroom. At first she was just going to clean the tiles in the shower, but she found herself washing the rugs and scouring the sink and scrubbing between the floor tiles with an old toothbrush. Morty found her there a little before noon.
"Ma?" He stood in the doorway, frowning down at her.
"Hi, Morty." Fern would never get used to calling him Jack. "I'm cleaning the bathroom."
"I see that. How is he?"
She waved toward the room at the end of the hall. "Alice is with him."
"She said he's asleep."
"Well, then he's all right, I guess." It was an ugly thought, but sleep seemed to be the only time Zeke was all right. When he was asleep he wasn't in pain and he didn't know he was dying.
"My roommates and I were going to have a picnic over by the old tree house," Morty said. "Is that OK?"
"As long as you don't go up in it," Fern said. "The wood's rotted through. Which reminds me, are you ever going to take down that garage?"
"Yes," he said. He seemed jittery, like he'd been drinking a lot of coffee. "But not today, OK?"
"Seems to me I've heard that quite a few times."
"I'll do it, don't worry. Next week. I'll see you in a few hours."
"OK. Have fun."
After she polished the mirror and the doorknobs and put out fresh towels and hung the rugs out to dry, she started on the kitchen. She had finished the oven when Quinn called.
"How is he?" she asked.
"He's fine. Alice is here," Fern said, not because it was unusual—Alice came
"Good morning, Alice," she said.
"Good morning, Mrs. Robinson." Fern had tried to get Alice to call her by her first name, but Alice seemed determined to keep some distance. She wasn't cold with Zeke, but with the rest of them she was always businesslike, almost formal. Fern thought she understood. It had to be hard to lose a patient every few months. Growing close to the family would only make it harder.
"He's still asleep." Fern held the door while Alice brought her bag in. "Would you like a cup of coffee?"
"Oh, that's not necessary," Alice said.
"It's no problem," Fern said.
"Black, then. And thank you." Alice hung her jacket on one of the hooks near the door. It was a cool, overcast morning, but Fern could tell that the sun would burn the clouds off in an hour or so and the day would be a hot one.
"I'll bring it in to you." Fern went to the kitchen before Alice could parry her offer with another polite protestation. Offered a drink, dessert, or a second helping, most midwesterners would respond "Oh, I shouldn't" or "No, really, I'm fine." Fern's mother, a transplanted Brit, had once brought a dinner party to a halt by taking the ritual protestations at face value and refusing to serve any more food or drinks. After twenty minutes Fern's father had taken mercy upon the squirming guests and asked them if they cared for another helping.
Fern brought the coffee to Zeke's room, where Alice was just waking him up. She set the coffee on the dresser and went to Zeke's side. He didn't speak, just squeezed her hand when she took his. She sat beside him on the bed and ran her fingers over his hair while Alice took his blood pressure and his temperature. Fern tried to pretend Alice wasn't there, that it was just Zeke and her there together, that Zeke wasn't dying and her heart wasn't breaking.
When it was time for Zeke's sponge bath Fern kissed him on the forehead and told him she loved him and smiled to show him he didn't need to exert himself to answer her.
She made an early lunch for the Carlson twins. They'd been out spraying the corn all morning, and they came back hungry. Fern watched them eat the beef stew, remembering days when Zeke came in with an appetite for more than just lunch. More than once he'd left the house just moments before the bus dropped off one of the kids, tucking in his shirt and stealing a last kiss as he ran out the door.
After the Carlson boys went back to the fields, Fern started on the bathroom. At first she was just going to clean the tiles in the shower, but she found herself washing the rugs and scouring the sink and scrubbing between the floor tiles with an old toothbrush. Morty found her there a little before noon.
"Ma?" He stood in the doorway, frowning down at her.
"Hi, Morty." Fern would never get used to calling him Jack. "I'm cleaning the bathroom."
"I see that. How is he?"
She waved toward the room at the end of the hall. "Alice is with him."
"She said he's asleep."
"Well, then he's all right, I guess." It was an ugly thought, but sleep seemed to be the only time Zeke was all right. When he was asleep he wasn't in pain and he didn't know he was dying.
"My roommates and I were going to have a picnic over by the old tree house," Morty said. "Is that OK?"
"As long as you don't go up in it," Fern said. "The wood's rotted through. Which reminds me, are you ever going to take down that garage?"
"Yes," he said. He seemed jittery, like he'd been drinking a lot of coffee. "But not today, OK?"
"Seems to me I've heard that quite a few times."
"I'll do it, don't worry. Next week. I'll see you in a few hours."
"OK. Have fun."
After she polished the mirror and the doorknobs and put out fresh towels and hung the rugs out to dry, she started on the kitchen. She had finished the oven when Quinn called.
"How is he?" she asked.
"He's fine. Alice is here," Fern said, not because it was unusual—Alice came
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