There upon the table, seeming more like symbols of domesticity than anything she had ever seen in her life, lay the mound of fresh-washed peas in their neat, resilient jackets, waiting for her fingers to bring them into the world.
"Go hull them if it'll make you feel good," said the second woman.
"No," said the first. "I won't. I just won't."
The third woman sighed. She embroidered a rose, a leaf, a daisy on a green field. The embroidery needle rose and vanished.
The second woman was working on the finest, most delicate piece of embroidery of them all, deftly poking, finding, and returning the quick needle upon innumerable journeys. Her quick black glance was on each motion. A flower, a man, a road, a sun, a house; the scene grew under hand, a miniature beauty, perfect in every threaded detail.
"It seems at times like this that it's always your hands you turn to," she said, and the others nodded enough to make the rockers rock again.
"I believe," said the first lady, "that our souls are in our hands. For we do everything to the world with our hands. Sometimes I think we don't use our hands half enough; it's certain we don't use our heads."
They all peered more intently at what their hands were doing. "Yes," said the third lady, "when you look back on a whole lifetime, it seems you don't remember faces so much as hands and what they did."
They recounted to themselves the lids they had lifted, the doors they had opened and shut, the flowers they had picked, the dinners they had made, all with slow or quick fingers, as was their manner or custom. Looking back, you saw a flurry of hands, like a magician's dream, doors popping wide, taps turned, brooms wielded, children spanked. The flutter of pink hands was the only sound; the rest was a dream without voices.
"No supper to fix tonight or tomorrow night or the next night after that," said the third lady.
"No windows to open or shut."
"No coal to shovel in the basement furnace next winter."
"No papers to clip cooking articles out of."
And suddenly they were crying. The tears rolled softly down their faces and fell into the material upon which their fingers twitched.
"This won't help things," said the first lady at last, putting the back of her thumb to each under-eyelid. She looked at her thumb and it was wet.
"Now look what I've done!" cried the second lady, exasperated. The others stopped and peered over. The second lady held out her embroidery. There was the scene, perfect except that while the embroidered yellow sun shone down upon the embroidered green field, and the embroidered brown road curved toward an embroidered pink house, the man standing on the road had something wrong with his face.
"I'll just have to rip out the whole pattern, practically, to fix it right," said the second lady.
"What a shame." They all stared intently at the beautiful scene with the flaw in it.
The second lady began to pick away at the thread with her little deft scissors flashing. The pattern came out thread by thread. She pulled and yanked, almost viciously. The man's face was gone. She continued to seize at the threads.
"What are you doing ?" asked the other woman.
They leaned and saw what she had done.
The man was gone from the road. She had taken him out entirely.
They said nothing but returned to their own tasks.
"What time is it?" asked someone.
"Five minutes to five."
"Is it supposed to happen at five o'clock?"
"Yes."
"And they're not sure what it'll do to anything, really, when it happens?"
"No, not sure."
"Why didn't we stop them before it got this far and this big?"
"It's twice as big as ever before. No, ten times, maybe a thousand."
"This isn't like the first one or the dozen later ones. This is different. Nobody knows what it might do when it comes."
They waited on the porch in the smell of roses and cut grass. "What time is it now?"
"One minute to five."
The needles flashed silver fire. They swam like a tiny school of metal fish in the darkening summer
"Go hull them if it'll make you feel good," said the second woman.
"No," said the first. "I won't. I just won't."
The third woman sighed. She embroidered a rose, a leaf, a daisy on a green field. The embroidery needle rose and vanished.
The second woman was working on the finest, most delicate piece of embroidery of them all, deftly poking, finding, and returning the quick needle upon innumerable journeys. Her quick black glance was on each motion. A flower, a man, a road, a sun, a house; the scene grew under hand, a miniature beauty, perfect in every threaded detail.
"It seems at times like this that it's always your hands you turn to," she said, and the others nodded enough to make the rockers rock again.
"I believe," said the first lady, "that our souls are in our hands. For we do everything to the world with our hands. Sometimes I think we don't use our hands half enough; it's certain we don't use our heads."
They all peered more intently at what their hands were doing. "Yes," said the third lady, "when you look back on a whole lifetime, it seems you don't remember faces so much as hands and what they did."
They recounted to themselves the lids they had lifted, the doors they had opened and shut, the flowers they had picked, the dinners they had made, all with slow or quick fingers, as was their manner or custom. Looking back, you saw a flurry of hands, like a magician's dream, doors popping wide, taps turned, brooms wielded, children spanked. The flutter of pink hands was the only sound; the rest was a dream without voices.
"No supper to fix tonight or tomorrow night or the next night after that," said the third lady.
"No windows to open or shut."
"No coal to shovel in the basement furnace next winter."
"No papers to clip cooking articles out of."
And suddenly they were crying. The tears rolled softly down their faces and fell into the material upon which their fingers twitched.
"This won't help things," said the first lady at last, putting the back of her thumb to each under-eyelid. She looked at her thumb and it was wet.
"Now look what I've done!" cried the second lady, exasperated. The others stopped and peered over. The second lady held out her embroidery. There was the scene, perfect except that while the embroidered yellow sun shone down upon the embroidered green field, and the embroidered brown road curved toward an embroidered pink house, the man standing on the road had something wrong with his face.
"I'll just have to rip out the whole pattern, practically, to fix it right," said the second lady.
"What a shame." They all stared intently at the beautiful scene with the flaw in it.
The second lady began to pick away at the thread with her little deft scissors flashing. The pattern came out thread by thread. She pulled and yanked, almost viciously. The man's face was gone. She continued to seize at the threads.
"What are you doing ?" asked the other woman.
They leaned and saw what she had done.
The man was gone from the road. She had taken him out entirely.
They said nothing but returned to their own tasks.
"What time is it?" asked someone.
"Five minutes to five."
"Is it supposed to happen at five o'clock?"
"Yes."
"And they're not sure what it'll do to anything, really, when it happens?"
"No, not sure."
"Why didn't we stop them before it got this far and this big?"
"It's twice as big as ever before. No, ten times, maybe a thousand."
"This isn't like the first one or the dozen later ones. This is different. Nobody knows what it might do when it comes."
They waited on the porch in the smell of roses and cut grass. "What time is it now?"
"One minute to five."
The needles flashed silver fire. They swam like a tiny school of metal fish in the darkening summer
Similar Books
