My husband had auburn hair, maybe that’s what it is. But it turned all gray and then he died.” She looked around at Thistle, standing behind her. “His hair wasn’t as bright as yours, but he went through the door and died.” She turned back to face Betsy. “Did your husband go through a door and die?”
“No,” said Betsy. “He’s still alive. But I did divorce him.”
Wilma winked at Betsy. “Tossed him out the door, eh? Good for you!” She looked down at the pattern. “Out the door, out the door,” she chanted, and tossed the pattern back at Betsy, who took it and opened her case to put it in. But Wilma shouted, “Did I say you should put it away? Give it back, it’s mine!”
Betsy complied, and Wilma ripped open the plastic bag and strewed the multiple sheets of the pattern across the table. “Unlock the door!” she said loudly. Some of the sheets slid across the table to fall on the floor. Wilma stared at the result. “Oops, sorry! I’m sorry! So sorry!” She began to cry, softly at first, then louder and louder, until she seemed almost hysterical.
Thistle stepped forward to put her hands on Wilma’s shoulders, but Wilma shrugged them off angrily and choked back her tears to growl, “Don’t touch me! This is between Betsy and me!” She looked at Betsy and said in a small, pleading voice, “Will you take me out of here?”
Thistle said at once, “Her room’s 412, fourth floor, go left off the elevator.”
Wilma said in a dignified voice, “Come with me, Betsy.”
Betsy looked at the other women. “I think you all did a splendid job. I’ll be glad to bring a catalog of more punch needle patterns, if you like.”
Thistle said to Betsy, “I’ll write down the patterns they choose from what you brought, and we can settle up later.”
“Come on, come on!” said Wilma, starting for the door, one hand reaching out behind her. Her tone had turned cheerful and there was a mischievous smile on her face, though her cheeks were still wet with tears.
Outside the library, Betsy asked, “Which way to the elevator?”
“Did I say I wanted to go to my room? Ha!” She started walking swiftly down the corridor, the skirt of her orange dress fluttering around her thin legs. She wore old-fashioned red sneakers.
Betsy hurried after her. “Where are we going?”
“I want to show you something!” said Wilma.
“But my coat and purse are back in the library,” said Betsy.
Wilma laughed loudly. “Follow me, follow me!” She hurried ahead and ducked through a door.
Betsy slowed down. Had she gone into someone’s room? What if she frightened someone, raising a fuss and refusing to come out? But as Betsy got closer to the door, she saw the glowing red EXIT sign over it. She pushed it open and found herself in a stairwell, all concrete. She could hear the soft pattering of rubber-shod feet going down and followed as quickly as she could. She should not have agreed to bring Wilma to her room, but now that she’d done so, she was even more anxious not to lose her.
Wilma exited the stairwell on the first floor and fled across the lobby to the broad stairs down to the therapy-pool level. When Betsy followed, she could just see the top of Wilma’s white hair as she made her way down the steps. “Ha ha ha!” Wilma crowed, the sound floating up the stairs.
Betsy glanced at the woman behind the desk near the entrance, who rolled her eyes and shrugged elaborately. Apparently this sort of behavior was familiar to her.
At the bottom of the stairs, Betsy saw the elevator doors just closing and threw up her hands in aggravation. But then she saw someone with white hair just inside the exercise room, and quickly went to peer through the glass. There were three women and two men in there, using the treadmills and bicycles. And Wilma was already halfway across the floor, heading toward the pool room.
Betsy followed quickly. Through the glass insert she saw a man and a woman floating on their backs
“No,” said Betsy. “He’s still alive. But I did divorce him.”
Wilma winked at Betsy. “Tossed him out the door, eh? Good for you!” She looked down at the pattern. “Out the door, out the door,” she chanted, and tossed the pattern back at Betsy, who took it and opened her case to put it in. But Wilma shouted, “Did I say you should put it away? Give it back, it’s mine!”
Betsy complied, and Wilma ripped open the plastic bag and strewed the multiple sheets of the pattern across the table. “Unlock the door!” she said loudly. Some of the sheets slid across the table to fall on the floor. Wilma stared at the result. “Oops, sorry! I’m sorry! So sorry!” She began to cry, softly at first, then louder and louder, until she seemed almost hysterical.
Thistle stepped forward to put her hands on Wilma’s shoulders, but Wilma shrugged them off angrily and choked back her tears to growl, “Don’t touch me! This is between Betsy and me!” She looked at Betsy and said in a small, pleading voice, “Will you take me out of here?”
Thistle said at once, “Her room’s 412, fourth floor, go left off the elevator.”
Wilma said in a dignified voice, “Come with me, Betsy.”
Betsy looked at the other women. “I think you all did a splendid job. I’ll be glad to bring a catalog of more punch needle patterns, if you like.”
Thistle said to Betsy, “I’ll write down the patterns they choose from what you brought, and we can settle up later.”
“Come on, come on!” said Wilma, starting for the door, one hand reaching out behind her. Her tone had turned cheerful and there was a mischievous smile on her face, though her cheeks were still wet with tears.
Outside the library, Betsy asked, “Which way to the elevator?”
“Did I say I wanted to go to my room? Ha!” She started walking swiftly down the corridor, the skirt of her orange dress fluttering around her thin legs. She wore old-fashioned red sneakers.
Betsy hurried after her. “Where are we going?”
“I want to show you something!” said Wilma.
“But my coat and purse are back in the library,” said Betsy.
Wilma laughed loudly. “Follow me, follow me!” She hurried ahead and ducked through a door.
Betsy slowed down. Had she gone into someone’s room? What if she frightened someone, raising a fuss and refusing to come out? But as Betsy got closer to the door, she saw the glowing red EXIT sign over it. She pushed it open and found herself in a stairwell, all concrete. She could hear the soft pattering of rubber-shod feet going down and followed as quickly as she could. She should not have agreed to bring Wilma to her room, but now that she’d done so, she was even more anxious not to lose her.
Wilma exited the stairwell on the first floor and fled across the lobby to the broad stairs down to the therapy-pool level. When Betsy followed, she could just see the top of Wilma’s white hair as she made her way down the steps. “Ha ha ha!” Wilma crowed, the sound floating up the stairs.
Betsy glanced at the woman behind the desk near the entrance, who rolled her eyes and shrugged elaborately. Apparently this sort of behavior was familiar to her.
At the bottom of the stairs, Betsy saw the elevator doors just closing and threw up her hands in aggravation. But then she saw someone with white hair just inside the exercise room, and quickly went to peer through the glass. There were three women and two men in there, using the treadmills and bicycles. And Wilma was already halfway across the floor, heading toward the pool room.
Betsy followed quickly. Through the glass insert she saw a man and a woman floating on their backs