The Theoretical Foot by M. F. K. Fisher

would learn to bring her only what she asked for, which was her accustomed cup of strong black coffee, but he refused and insisted on giving her the same pot of hot milk, the same pile of butter curls, the same crisp rolls that he brought to the others.
    It was natural for the children to be hungry, as they were like young animals and it mattered not at all with a little thing like Nan that she lost her figure altogether. Still, a tall woman who cared anything about the dignity of her appearance had to be careful.
    Lucy resolved—and this time really meant it—that tomorrow she would send the tray back downstairs untouched.
    She now lifted it carefully to the end of the bed and crawled out from beneath the covers. Her decision made her feel much better, more strong and cheerful and now she hummed a little.
    She was nearly dressed when she heard Nan on the balcony. She was buttoning the front of her shirtmaker dress with hurried, slightly trembling fingers before she realized that Nan’s high sweet voice wasn’t addressing her; rather, it was calling to someone on the terrace below.
    She moved to the window and looked out to see Nan, her hair blowing like a golden cloud around the shoulders of her soft, corn-colored dressing gown, was leaning over the railing of the balcony with her arms dangling down, and Lucy’s lips puckered into a hard knot as her mouth flooded with bitterness.
    Abandoned! That was how Nan Garten looked, abandoned, lolling about like that at the edge of the balcony with her negligee half open and calling out.
    But who was it below?
    Lucy peered down to see Tim and Sara sitting at one end of the green terrace table drinking beer and eating something from a little pewter bowl. Each was looking up at Nan and they were now all laughing. Lucy wondered if Sara had seen her, but—if so—there was no sign of this on her smooth, if silly, face.
    â€œCome on, darling,” Nan was saying. “Do please throw me one more!”
    â€œYou don’t want pretzels for breakfast,” Tim was saying, still laughing. “They’re not for the likes of you.”
    â€œOh, go ahead,” Sara said. “Let Nan have them. She’s got to learn the facts of life sometime.”
    Nan cried out as her frail little body tottered half over the railing as she reached to catch what Sara had thrown as Lucy watched, feeling agonized.
    â€œHere,” Tim said, “try this one,” his pretzel landing almost at Lucy’s feet as she ducked back into the shadow of the detestible blue curtains. She reeled, she almost fell, as she heard Nan say, “Tim, you did that on purpose, you old bastard.”
    Lucy picked up a handkerchief, looked at it dully, let it drop. She then felt under the pillows for the wet wad she’d used earlier and—closing her own door quietly behind her—let herself into Nan’s room without knocking, there to burst into a flood of heartrending, noisy sobs.

iii

    Through her sobs, Lucy Pendleton then heard the sound of feet hurrying across the linoleum floor, then the light throbbing of Nan’s voice. She felt a hand touching the flesh of her own shaking shoulder.
    â€œLucy, dear, what’s wrong? Are you ill?”
    â€œIll? Of course I’m not ill!” Lucy listened to the croaking of her own voice with astonishment as she shrugged away from Nan’s light touch. She then leaned against the wall, as if her legs would no longer carry her, and sobbed wildly in true anguish.
    â€œOh, Nan,” she said, groping for her friend’s long, slender fingers, which were not there. Lucy opened her eyes to see Nan Garton sitting quietly in bed, the covers pulled up, her large eyes looking oddly blank, even as her small square face watched the spectacle ensuing before her. It looked as if she was thinking of elephants, muffins. Her wide mouth was held in a polite, if slightly pained, smile.
    Lucy’s own eyes cleared. She