house now.
As always, Sylvia’s body made a slight mound on the hospital bed. As usual, Winifred’s chair was drawn close and the piñon fire was blazing. Sylvia’s empty black eyes stared into the room from beneath a carefully combed halo of white hair.
Nothing much changed from visit to visit except the seasons beyond the windows and Sylvia herself, becoming more and more ghostlike, translucent. Every week when the doctor visited, he told Josh that he expected Sylvia to be dead.
So far no one had been that lucky.
“Good morning, Aunt Winifred,” he said quietly. “How is Mother today?”
“Alive.”
Josh bit back a sigh and a curse. Neither would make a difference. Winifred had never liked him. She would go to her grave that way. “Alma said you weren’t feeling well.”
“I’ll live.”
“I’m sure you will. Nothing would be the same without you.”
Winifred leaned forward, opened a rough pottery jar, and scooped out something that looked—and smelled—like it had been scraped off a barn floor and mixed with rotten fish. Gently she rubbed the greenish goo over Sylvia’s withered torso, careful not to disturb the various tubes.
“Your love and devotion have kept her alive,” Josh said, trying not to gag on the smell of whatever Winifred had concocted. “We’re all grateful for that.”
The old woman didn’t answer.
Slowly, like a leaf caught in an uncertain eddy, Sylvia’s head turned toward the window. It was the only movement she ever made, gradually turning her head to one side or the other. Since her eyes never focused on anything, it was impossible to say why her body made the effort.
“Get out and leave her be,” Winifred said, pulling up the blankets again. “She’s got pain enough without you.”
For a moment Josh’s eyes narrowed and his hands flexed. Winifred’s insistence that her sister had times of awareness was maddening. Every famous clinic in America—and more than a few overseas—had declared the opposite. The stroke that felled Sylvia had left her body alive and her mind forever beyond reach. The fact that she’d survived so long was a miracle.
“If you don’t want her disturbed,” Josh said evenly, “we should leave the room while we discuss this pseudo-historian you’ve hired.”
“Nothing to discuss.”
“I don’t think this ‘family history’ is anything more than a scam.”
“Doesn’t matter what you think,” Winifred said. “I hired her, it’s my money, and that’s that.”
“That might have worked with the Senator, but it won’t with me. As long as you’re living on my ranch, you will at least be civil to me.”
Winifred gave him a look from black eyes and touched Sylvia’s hair gently. “It’s not your ranch. It’s hers .”
Josh told himself not to lose his temper. He dealt with more difficult and more powerful people five times a day. And that’s what he should be doing now—working as the governor of New Mexico, not dancing attendance on one madwoman and the ghostly remains of another woman who hadn’t spoken in almost forty years. It was nearly impossible to think of that slack mass of skin and bones as alive, much less as his mother, but a politician didn’t get anywhere speaking ill of a woman who hung on to life long past reason.
So long, so damned long. When will it end for her?
For all of us.
“I’m her guardian now,” Josh said. “The ranch is part of my legal responsibility to her.”
“Throwing me out won’t win you any votes.”
Wearily Josh shook his head and pulled at the tie he’d worn for a taped TV interview an hour ago. A waste of time, but the reporter worked for a well-known national paper and was solidly in the governor’s camp for the coming election.
“Nobody said anything about throwing you out.” Josh sighed as his collar button gave way. “The ranch has been your home for a long time. No matter what changes, I’ll see that you’re taken care of.”
Winifred gave him a long,
As always, Sylvia’s body made a slight mound on the hospital bed. As usual, Winifred’s chair was drawn close and the piñon fire was blazing. Sylvia’s empty black eyes stared into the room from beneath a carefully combed halo of white hair.
Nothing much changed from visit to visit except the seasons beyond the windows and Sylvia herself, becoming more and more ghostlike, translucent. Every week when the doctor visited, he told Josh that he expected Sylvia to be dead.
So far no one had been that lucky.
“Good morning, Aunt Winifred,” he said quietly. “How is Mother today?”
“Alive.”
Josh bit back a sigh and a curse. Neither would make a difference. Winifred had never liked him. She would go to her grave that way. “Alma said you weren’t feeling well.”
“I’ll live.”
“I’m sure you will. Nothing would be the same without you.”
Winifred leaned forward, opened a rough pottery jar, and scooped out something that looked—and smelled—like it had been scraped off a barn floor and mixed with rotten fish. Gently she rubbed the greenish goo over Sylvia’s withered torso, careful not to disturb the various tubes.
“Your love and devotion have kept her alive,” Josh said, trying not to gag on the smell of whatever Winifred had concocted. “We’re all grateful for that.”
The old woman didn’t answer.
Slowly, like a leaf caught in an uncertain eddy, Sylvia’s head turned toward the window. It was the only movement she ever made, gradually turning her head to one side or the other. Since her eyes never focused on anything, it was impossible to say why her body made the effort.
“Get out and leave her be,” Winifred said, pulling up the blankets again. “She’s got pain enough without you.”
For a moment Josh’s eyes narrowed and his hands flexed. Winifred’s insistence that her sister had times of awareness was maddening. Every famous clinic in America—and more than a few overseas—had declared the opposite. The stroke that felled Sylvia had left her body alive and her mind forever beyond reach. The fact that she’d survived so long was a miracle.
“If you don’t want her disturbed,” Josh said evenly, “we should leave the room while we discuss this pseudo-historian you’ve hired.”
“Nothing to discuss.”
“I don’t think this ‘family history’ is anything more than a scam.”
“Doesn’t matter what you think,” Winifred said. “I hired her, it’s my money, and that’s that.”
“That might have worked with the Senator, but it won’t with me. As long as you’re living on my ranch, you will at least be civil to me.”
Winifred gave him a look from black eyes and touched Sylvia’s hair gently. “It’s not your ranch. It’s hers .”
Josh told himself not to lose his temper. He dealt with more difficult and more powerful people five times a day. And that’s what he should be doing now—working as the governor of New Mexico, not dancing attendance on one madwoman and the ghostly remains of another woman who hadn’t spoken in almost forty years. It was nearly impossible to think of that slack mass of skin and bones as alive, much less as his mother, but a politician didn’t get anywhere speaking ill of a woman who hung on to life long past reason.
So long, so damned long. When will it end for her?
For all of us.
“I’m her guardian now,” Josh said. “The ranch is part of my legal responsibility to her.”
“Throwing me out won’t win you any votes.”
Wearily Josh shook his head and pulled at the tie he’d worn for a taped TV interview an hour ago. A waste of time, but the reporter worked for a well-known national paper and was solidly in the governor’s camp for the coming election.
“Nobody said anything about throwing you out.” Josh sighed as his collar button gave way. “The ranch has been your home for a long time. No matter what changes, I’ll see that you’re taken care of.”
Winifred gave him a long,
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