The Glory Hand by Paul, Sharon Boorstin Page A

as silvery as her hair, the heavy satin, 1 Cassie thought, that you were either baptized or buried in. Cassie's own maternal grandmother had never looked that old, not even at the age of ninety, when Cassie had visited her in her sickroom on Beacon Hill. The senile old woman ; had so hated facing her deteriorating body that she'd ordered all mirrors removed from the house.
    'I do wish I could welcome you with a big hug. But quel dommage,'' Miss Grace sighed, 'I'm as good as dead from the neck down.' Her hands lay still in her lap, their faded lace gloves revealing patches of flesh as yellow as the fabric ; covering them. Miss Grace smiled gratefully as Cassie took her hand. It felt terribly light, as if the old lady's bones were hollow, like a bird's, and Cassie set it down carefully, afraid the least pressure would break it.
    'To see you at long last . . .' Miss Grace's voice trailed off. Her eyes were clouded with cataracts, as glazed as the eyes of the Toby mugs lining the mantel, and Cassie felt as if the old woman's distant stare was really seeking out the spark of her mother within her, poting over memories: 'What a gift to be able to lay eyes on you before . . . Well, j none of us is going to be here forever, are we, Cassandra?'
    Cassie sensed the old lady was fishing for a compliment. 'You look very well to me.'
    'Your mother wasn't much of a fibber, either,' she chuckled, 'but thank you, dear. Thank you, anyway,' her laugh ended in a dry cough. 'You know, child, your mother
    was one of the sweetest young ladies ever to bunk up with us at Casmaran. The horrid event that took her -quelle tragidie - it was like losing a daughter. But then, she must have told you how fond we were of each other.'
    'Oh, yes.' Cassie thought of the letter. Her mother had been writing her like a daughter. But why hadn't she ever mentioned Miss Grace - or Casmaran - to her?
    'I feel I'm in the strangest sort of limbo,' Miss Grace murmured. 'Betwixt and between. Right now I'm with you. Tomorrow I may be traveling over to join your mother, on the Other Side.'
    'Don't talk like that,' Cassie said, feeling it was expected of her.
    'Well, when I do make the journey I'll tell her just how splendidly you turned out.' Cassie squirmed, and as if sensing her discomfort, Miss Grace sealed her thin lips. She twitched her head, and Cassie realized she was gesturing to the table beside her. Careful to avoid knocking over a sculpture of etched glass - Jonah inside the whale - Cassie picked up a china cup of what smelled like green tea and raised it to the old lady's lips. 'I must make a pretty picture ... a fine sight!' Miss Grace said, the liquid dribbling down her chin. 'Growing old is never beautiful, Cassandra. The tragedy is not that one feels old - but that one feels young!' Cassie wiped the corners of Miss Grace's mouth with the hankie on her lap. The lipstick left a dark stain on the lace. She wanted to ask about her mother, wanted to hear what she had been like when she was her age, but Miss Grace rambled on: i'd like to be right out there with my girls, of course: soccer and swimming and riding ... I was quite an equestrian in my day. Now . . .' She shot a glance towards a brass telescope on a tripod by the window. 'I still keep an eye on things. But every year the woods grow thicker . . .' She laughed. 'Pretty soon all I'll be able to see are the crows in the trees!' Cassie offered her another sip from the cup, and tea dripped from the old lady's mouth onto Cassie's hand. Cassie wiped it away quickly, as if old age might be catching.
    'I used to have Soledad to keep me company, bless his soul . . .'
    'Your dog?' Cassie remembered the wolflike staue in the woods, with its shimmering eyes.
    'The girls wanted to buy me another pet after he passed on, but I don't have to tell you, Cassandra, how once you lose a loved one, it's impossible to try to replace it.'
    Cassie squirmed at the awkward comparison to her mother, but excused it - the old woman