doorway wearing pale blue, looked like a soft white cloud.
“There’s leftover ham, and I can fry you up an egg if you like,” she said. She turned around and headed down the hall. “Of course, I ate hours ago,” she called back, “but you Yankees must be on a different schedule.”
I propped up the frame and followed her down the hall to the kitchen, where she was taking a carton of eggs out of the fridge.
“I don’t want you to go to any trouble,” I said. “I’m not all that hungry.”
Clyde paused and straightened. Then she shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
“But if you’ve already started—”
“Are you hungry or not?”
“I’m a little hungry,” I admitted.
“Well, all right, then.” She set a frying pan on the stove. “You go on and get dressed. This’ll be ready in five minutes.”
I hesitated. “Clyde … there’s something I’ve been wondering about. Yesterday you said this used to be your favorite place, and I … I was just wondering why it isn’t anymore.”
She looked at me as if trying to decide what to tell me. Finally she walked over to the sink. “This is where I found him. Right here.” She pointed to the floor. “I had to throw away all the clothes I was wearing that day. Blood all over them.”
“Amory?”
She nodded. “I guess if I’d tried I could’ve gotten the blood out, but who’d have wanted to? I threw away everything, even my underwear.”
I looked down at the floor, as if it might yield some clues.
“I asked Horace about putting in a new floor. He said he thought that would be a waste of money, since this one’s only four years old. I didn’t argue with him, I just cleaned it up real good. But every time I come in here it’s like I’m stepping over that body to get to the sink. It’s like I’m slipping in that blood.”
We stood there in silence for a moment, looking at the linoleum. “You should have a new floor if you want one,” I said in a quavery voice. “You shouldn’t have to live with that.”
“No, Horace is right,” Clyde said. “Some things you just got to live with and get over. If he put a new floor in here, it would be like I wanted to pretend it never happened. But it did happen, and a new floor won’t make me forget it.”
The cuckoo clock shrilled suddenly. Clyde picked a couple of eggs out of the carton and cracked them into a bowl. “Well, you go on and get ready,” she said, beating the eggs with a whisk.
“I’m—I’m sorry, Clyde.”
She just nodded. She didn’t look at me.
I went down the hall to my bedroom. I shut the door and leaned back against it, noticing the stuccoed pattern on the ceiling. I wasn’t hungry anymore. I didn’t know what to think.
I wondered what she thought of me, what she thought I was thinking. I’d expected that this might be awkward; I had braced myself for indifference or mistrust. But I was unprepared for this stiffly polite standoff between us, the strange assumption of intimacy, the seemingly kind gestures devoid of any warmth.
Hearing the whistle of a kettle, I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face. I bent down and threw my hair over my head, brushing it quickly with firm, hard strokes. As I searched through my suitcase I realized that almost every piece of clothing I had was paint-spattered or ink-stained. Nothing seemed to match. I put on a Martha’s Vineyard T-shirt and a pair of men’s shorts and returned to the kitchen.
Clyde was lifting ham out of the frying pan onto a paper towel, her back to me. Leaning on the counter between the kitchen and thetable, I watched her silently. When she turned around I saw that her apron had a cartoon of a gray-haired, smiling woman in a rocking chair above the words WORLD’S BEST GRANDMOTHER.
Clyde set down her spatula and wiped her fingers on the apron. “Hungry yet?” She handed me a plate of ham, eggs, and toast. After getting jam and margarine from the fridge, she followed me to the table. As we sat
“There’s leftover ham, and I can fry you up an egg if you like,” she said. She turned around and headed down the hall. “Of course, I ate hours ago,” she called back, “but you Yankees must be on a different schedule.”
I propped up the frame and followed her down the hall to the kitchen, where she was taking a carton of eggs out of the fridge.
“I don’t want you to go to any trouble,” I said. “I’m not all that hungry.”
Clyde paused and straightened. Then she shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
“But if you’ve already started—”
“Are you hungry or not?”
“I’m a little hungry,” I admitted.
“Well, all right, then.” She set a frying pan on the stove. “You go on and get dressed. This’ll be ready in five minutes.”
I hesitated. “Clyde … there’s something I’ve been wondering about. Yesterday you said this used to be your favorite place, and I … I was just wondering why it isn’t anymore.”
She looked at me as if trying to decide what to tell me. Finally she walked over to the sink. “This is where I found him. Right here.” She pointed to the floor. “I had to throw away all the clothes I was wearing that day. Blood all over them.”
“Amory?”
She nodded. “I guess if I’d tried I could’ve gotten the blood out, but who’d have wanted to? I threw away everything, even my underwear.”
I looked down at the floor, as if it might yield some clues.
“I asked Horace about putting in a new floor. He said he thought that would be a waste of money, since this one’s only four years old. I didn’t argue with him, I just cleaned it up real good. But every time I come in here it’s like I’m stepping over that body to get to the sink. It’s like I’m slipping in that blood.”
We stood there in silence for a moment, looking at the linoleum. “You should have a new floor if you want one,” I said in a quavery voice. “You shouldn’t have to live with that.”
“No, Horace is right,” Clyde said. “Some things you just got to live with and get over. If he put a new floor in here, it would be like I wanted to pretend it never happened. But it did happen, and a new floor won’t make me forget it.”
The cuckoo clock shrilled suddenly. Clyde picked a couple of eggs out of the carton and cracked them into a bowl. “Well, you go on and get ready,” she said, beating the eggs with a whisk.
“I’m—I’m sorry, Clyde.”
She just nodded. She didn’t look at me.
I went down the hall to my bedroom. I shut the door and leaned back against it, noticing the stuccoed pattern on the ceiling. I wasn’t hungry anymore. I didn’t know what to think.
I wondered what she thought of me, what she thought I was thinking. I’d expected that this might be awkward; I had braced myself for indifference or mistrust. But I was unprepared for this stiffly polite standoff between us, the strange assumption of intimacy, the seemingly kind gestures devoid of any warmth.
Hearing the whistle of a kettle, I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face. I bent down and threw my hair over my head, brushing it quickly with firm, hard strokes. As I searched through my suitcase I realized that almost every piece of clothing I had was paint-spattered or ink-stained. Nothing seemed to match. I put on a Martha’s Vineyard T-shirt and a pair of men’s shorts and returned to the kitchen.
Clyde was lifting ham out of the frying pan onto a paper towel, her back to me. Leaning on the counter between the kitchen and thetable, I watched her silently. When she turned around I saw that her apron had a cartoon of a gray-haired, smiling woman in a rocking chair above the words WORLD’S BEST GRANDMOTHER.
Clyde set down her spatula and wiped her fingers on the apron. “Hungry yet?” She handed me a plate of ham, eggs, and toast. After getting jam and margarine from the fridge, she followed me to the table. As we sat
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