side.
His boarders were comforting, familiar voices milling around him, automatically allowing for the space he took up as he stood in the center of the kitchen. “Has anyone noticed my bread?” said Mrs. Jarrett. “I’ve looked all over for it. I was keeping it in the icebox to guard against mold.” Yet the openrefrigerator seemed to contain nothing
but
mold, row upon row of leftovers in tiny bottles growing green fur, hardened cubes of cheese, doll-sized cans and jars bought for single people’s suppers and never finished. “Last week,” said Mrs. Jarrett, “I sterilized the sink with household bleach and washed all the dishes myself but now look. I wonder if it might be possible to afford a cleaning lady?” Jeremy said nothing. His eyes seemed fastened to Miss Vinton’s lavender cardigan, a restful color. Then when Miss Vinton moved over to the table he scratched his head, searched for some answer he knew he should have given. Nothing came to him.
Mr. Somerset was standing at the stove with a rolled-up copy of
Male
magazine under one arm. He lit the flame below a skillet full of white grease; he flicked out a drowned cockroach with the corner of his spatula and began laying down strips of bacon, but he seemed to be talking about toast. “Know what I’ve got? Tea-and-toast syndrome.
Howard
will have heard of it. Went in and said, ‘Doc, I just don’t know what to tell you, seems like nowadays it’s all I can do to get out of the bed in the morning.’ Tea-and-toast syndrome, he tells me. Common among us older folk. Eat more protein. Now I have to have meat at every meal, not easy for a man of my income, and liver twice a week, which I detest. On top of which food don’t taste like it once did, you know. It’s these additives.”
“It’s age,” said Mrs. Jarrett.
“It’s additives.”
“It’s age. Your taste buds are drying up, Mr. Somerset.”
“And with everything else I got to put up with, it turns out it’s no longer possible to get the kind of rest I need in this house. We all know why. I just wish Howard was here and I could give him a piece of my mind. Last night he come in at twelve-thirty. Late even for him. My sleeping is a fragile business, not something you can play around with in such a way.
He
sleeps like a log. He was up at six, whistling in thebathroom. While he’s shaving he names over the parts of the anatomy. Tells the mirror all the minor bones of the foot. I just want to say one thing, Jeremy: this is an
older
person’s house. Know what I mean? We got no business boarding medical students.”
Jeremy watched the bacon crinkling in slow motion. He saw wisps of gray smoke rise toward the ceiling, blurring the kitchen. How long had he been here? Was it for lunch or for supper? Had he eaten yet?
Mrs. Jarrett’s plump, ringed hand appeared, bearing a plate. “Have a piece of strawberry shortcake, Jeremy,” she said. “Though it’s only store-bought.” She held the plate out on her fingertips and smiled, fixed in time by a sudden flash of light, imprinted in negative upon his eyelids.
Here is Mrs. Jarrett, all beads and elegance. How gently the planes of her face meet, each meeting prepared for by those little powdery pouches! How perfectly her hair is crimped, how neatly her flowered hat sits upon it! She wears hats everywhere, maybe even to bed. She keeps her cheerfulness even here, even crossing this stained and sticky floor that tries to suck the patent leather pumps off her feet. Mr. Somerset turns a strip of bacon and sighs. Miss Vinton runs the faucet over a tower of jelly glasses in the sink. Mrs. Jarrett says, “A meal is not a meal without dessert at the end,” and Jeremy takes the plate, leaving her graciously curving hands up-ended between them. “Why, thank you,” he says. “Thank you for offering it to me. I would just like to say—” before the light dies away again and the numbness unrolls itself like a window-shade and he is left holding some
His boarders were comforting, familiar voices milling around him, automatically allowing for the space he took up as he stood in the center of the kitchen. “Has anyone noticed my bread?” said Mrs. Jarrett. “I’ve looked all over for it. I was keeping it in the icebox to guard against mold.” Yet the openrefrigerator seemed to contain nothing
but
mold, row upon row of leftovers in tiny bottles growing green fur, hardened cubes of cheese, doll-sized cans and jars bought for single people’s suppers and never finished. “Last week,” said Mrs. Jarrett, “I sterilized the sink with household bleach and washed all the dishes myself but now look. I wonder if it might be possible to afford a cleaning lady?” Jeremy said nothing. His eyes seemed fastened to Miss Vinton’s lavender cardigan, a restful color. Then when Miss Vinton moved over to the table he scratched his head, searched for some answer he knew he should have given. Nothing came to him.
Mr. Somerset was standing at the stove with a rolled-up copy of
Male
magazine under one arm. He lit the flame below a skillet full of white grease; he flicked out a drowned cockroach with the corner of his spatula and began laying down strips of bacon, but he seemed to be talking about toast. “Know what I’ve got? Tea-and-toast syndrome.
Howard
will have heard of it. Went in and said, ‘Doc, I just don’t know what to tell you, seems like nowadays it’s all I can do to get out of the bed in the morning.’ Tea-and-toast syndrome, he tells me. Common among us older folk. Eat more protein. Now I have to have meat at every meal, not easy for a man of my income, and liver twice a week, which I detest. On top of which food don’t taste like it once did, you know. It’s these additives.”
“It’s age,” said Mrs. Jarrett.
“It’s additives.”
“It’s age. Your taste buds are drying up, Mr. Somerset.”
“And with everything else I got to put up with, it turns out it’s no longer possible to get the kind of rest I need in this house. We all know why. I just wish Howard was here and I could give him a piece of my mind. Last night he come in at twelve-thirty. Late even for him. My sleeping is a fragile business, not something you can play around with in such a way.
He
sleeps like a log. He was up at six, whistling in thebathroom. While he’s shaving he names over the parts of the anatomy. Tells the mirror all the minor bones of the foot. I just want to say one thing, Jeremy: this is an
older
person’s house. Know what I mean? We got no business boarding medical students.”
Jeremy watched the bacon crinkling in slow motion. He saw wisps of gray smoke rise toward the ceiling, blurring the kitchen. How long had he been here? Was it for lunch or for supper? Had he eaten yet?
Mrs. Jarrett’s plump, ringed hand appeared, bearing a plate. “Have a piece of strawberry shortcake, Jeremy,” she said. “Though it’s only store-bought.” She held the plate out on her fingertips and smiled, fixed in time by a sudden flash of light, imprinted in negative upon his eyelids.
Here is Mrs. Jarrett, all beads and elegance. How gently the planes of her face meet, each meeting prepared for by those little powdery pouches! How perfectly her hair is crimped, how neatly her flowered hat sits upon it! She wears hats everywhere, maybe even to bed. She keeps her cheerfulness even here, even crossing this stained and sticky floor that tries to suck the patent leather pumps off her feet. Mr. Somerset turns a strip of bacon and sighs. Miss Vinton runs the faucet over a tower of jelly glasses in the sink. Mrs. Jarrett says, “A meal is not a meal without dessert at the end,” and Jeremy takes the plate, leaving her graciously curving hands up-ended between them. “Why, thank you,” he says. “Thank you for offering it to me. I would just like to say—” before the light dies away again and the numbness unrolls itself like a window-shade and he is left holding some
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