Will's grandfather, as had the applewood spoons and the rolling pin of polished cherry. When Laura had first come to the Bruces' mountain kitchen with its blue willow china and the claw-footed oak table and chairs, she had been uneasy about using these heirlooms for fear of spoiling them, but Will wouldn't hear of her buying plastic replacements at Kroger's in Johnson City. It was family tradition, he'd insisted, and so to please him she had gingerly employed the ancient utensils as she learned her way about her new life. She was not yet comfortable with them, but today it seemed fitting to use them. She was baking Christmas cookies for Will. It seemed odd to be thinking of Christmas so early in November, but the postal service was advising everyone to mail early, because long delays in delivery were inevitable. She didn't know what Will's favorite cookies were; he hadn't been especially keen on sweets, but she decided to make a batch of chocolate chip cookies, be-124
cause the newspaper said that those were everyone's favorite. They would go into a foil-lined cookie tin she'd found in the pantry, with a picture of deer on the lid.
She had puzzled a long while over what else to send. Socks? Golf balls? Finally, she had settled on a stack of paperback westerns, a crossword-puzzle magazine, and a cassette of the Statler Brothers' greatest hits. The last present to go in the box, wrapped in candy-cane paper, bore a tag that said, "To Daddy from Baby Bruce"; it was a book on fatherhood.
Laura smiled to herself as she put it in beside the stack of Louis L'Amours. Will had sounded so despondent the last time he phoned, saying that no one out there seemed to need him. She thought that a reminder of the baby to come would assure him that he was needed and wanted back home. Absently, she reached for one of the warm cookies. She seemed to be hungry all the time now, but worse than that was the fatigue. She wanted to sleep sixteen hours a day, and now that the mornings were dark until well past seven, she found it harder to resist the urge to lie in bed half the day. So much for burning up any of those extra calories that she was taking in. She was beginning to show now—a gentle but obstinate curve had replaced her flat stomach—and no matter how much rest she got, the dark circles stayed beneath her eyes.
She supposed that she'd look like a cow by Christmas, and she'd probably have to sew new clothes for the holidays. Oh, God, Christmas! 125
Laura sank down in the ladderback chair, the half-eaten cookie forgotten in her hand. There were church decorations to be seen to, a Christmas pageant for the children, caroling to organize, and arrangements to be made for helping the needy. How could she possibly manage all of it alone? The very thought of the chaotic season to come made her want to crawl back into bed and sleep until spring like Nora Bonesteel's groundhog.
"I have quite enough to contend with these days without having to cater a birthday party for you, 1 ' she said aloud. It was as close as she had come to prayer all day.
Taw McBryde hadn't used a typewriter more than ten times in his life, but he'd kept an old secondhand portable for writing the odd complaint letter to the mail-order people or pecking out a Christmas letter for mimeographing. Now he sat stiffly in front of the worn keyboard, staring at the blank sheet of paper, as white as Tavy's face. They didn't talk much about the cancer, and Taw resolved not to notice the physical signs of his friend's encroaching illness. Tavy tired more easily now, and there was a closed look about him that indicated his growing disinterest with the world.
They were sitting in the kitchen of Taw's five-room thirties-style house, which he had furnished from the Goodwill in Johnson City. In forty years of marriage, he had endured enough coasters to protect the tabletops and plastic to protect the upholstery. Now that the missus
was gone, he would do as he pleased. He bought
cause the newspaper said that those were everyone's favorite. They would go into a foil-lined cookie tin she'd found in the pantry, with a picture of deer on the lid.
She had puzzled a long while over what else to send. Socks? Golf balls? Finally, she had settled on a stack of paperback westerns, a crossword-puzzle magazine, and a cassette of the Statler Brothers' greatest hits. The last present to go in the box, wrapped in candy-cane paper, bore a tag that said, "To Daddy from Baby Bruce"; it was a book on fatherhood.
Laura smiled to herself as she put it in beside the stack of Louis L'Amours. Will had sounded so despondent the last time he phoned, saying that no one out there seemed to need him. She thought that a reminder of the baby to come would assure him that he was needed and wanted back home. Absently, she reached for one of the warm cookies. She seemed to be hungry all the time now, but worse than that was the fatigue. She wanted to sleep sixteen hours a day, and now that the mornings were dark until well past seven, she found it harder to resist the urge to lie in bed half the day. So much for burning up any of those extra calories that she was taking in. She was beginning to show now—a gentle but obstinate curve had replaced her flat stomach—and no matter how much rest she got, the dark circles stayed beneath her eyes.
She supposed that she'd look like a cow by Christmas, and she'd probably have to sew new clothes for the holidays. Oh, God, Christmas! 125
Laura sank down in the ladderback chair, the half-eaten cookie forgotten in her hand. There were church decorations to be seen to, a Christmas pageant for the children, caroling to organize, and arrangements to be made for helping the needy. How could she possibly manage all of it alone? The very thought of the chaotic season to come made her want to crawl back into bed and sleep until spring like Nora Bonesteel's groundhog.
"I have quite enough to contend with these days without having to cater a birthday party for you, 1 ' she said aloud. It was as close as she had come to prayer all day.
Taw McBryde hadn't used a typewriter more than ten times in his life, but he'd kept an old secondhand portable for writing the odd complaint letter to the mail-order people or pecking out a Christmas letter for mimeographing. Now he sat stiffly in front of the worn keyboard, staring at the blank sheet of paper, as white as Tavy's face. They didn't talk much about the cancer, and Taw resolved not to notice the physical signs of his friend's encroaching illness. Tavy tired more easily now, and there was a closed look about him that indicated his growing disinterest with the world.
They were sitting in the kitchen of Taw's five-room thirties-style house, which he had furnished from the Goodwill in Johnson City. In forty years of marriage, he had endured enough coasters to protect the tabletops and plastic to protect the upholstery. Now that the missus
was gone, he would do as he pleased. He bought
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