several times, loudly.
Finally, the door opened. Eileen, smiling, stood on tiptoes and delivered a cousinly kiss. She gestured for him to go on in, passing him on the porch as she went to let the beast out into the yard. He renewed his vow that he and the dog would not be in the same space at the same time. He would continue the charade of fearlessness, but he would be sure the dog had been confined once more in the basement before he left.
Appetizing aromas greeted him. Maureen and Mary Lou were doing the cooking. Mary Lou checked her watch. “Good old Uncle Bob,” she said, “right on time.”
Because of the age difference and in spite of the lack of blood relationship, both Brenda and Mary Lou always referred to Oona and Eileen as “Aunt” and to Koesler as either “Father” or “Uncle.” However, both addressed the remaining sister as Maureen. Evidently they did not feel comfortable calling her “Mother.”
Mary Lou greeted Koesler with a cursory hug and a peck on the cheek. Maureen was up to her elbows mashing cooked rutabaga. She looked up and winked at him. He returned the wink.
Eileen entered the kitchen, closing the door quickly behind her. The dog’s roar was restored to the yard. The tenor of its bark had changed. It knew that Koesler had breached the neutral zone—but he would never get out alive.
Koesler volunteered to assist or relieve, even to the mashing of rutabaga. But his offer was declined by all, and he was ordered into the living room; dinner would be ready in a little while.
He removed his jacket and clerical collar and hung them in the hall closet.
In the living room, seated near the picture window, was Oona, complete with a white sling supporting her right arm.
“Happy birthday,” he said. “Hurt your arm?”
Oona audibly sucked in a breath of air in the Irish way of foretokening some sort of doom. “It’s getting harder every year. And now … sixty-five! God have mercy.”
“Go on now, sixty-five isn’t that old.” He was speaking from the vantage of sixty-four. But he was convinced it was a matter of health. With good health, great old age had a measure of youth to it. Without health, youth could have all the disability ordinarily attributed to old age. For Oona, then, sixty-five might just as well be ninety. But Koesler did not want to play to her hypochondria. He would try to keep the conversation light. “And your arm?”
She shrugged. “Arthritis kicking up again.”
Was it arthritis? He knew that in her medicine chest was every conceivable medication, palliative, and supportive bandage, pad, and compress that could be found in a well-stocked pharmacy.
Koesler recalled years before when a smattering of male relatives had attended family parties. Oona had stated that if there were anything to reincarnation, she was going to come back as a man, have a huge dinner prepared by womenfolk, then settle into a comfy chair, loosen her belt, and, while the ladies cleaned up, belch.
Maybe the sling was her version of reincarnation. It clearly had gotten her out of the meal’s preparation and undoubtedly would do the same for the cleanup later.
Oona began to detail the extent to which arthritis had limited the few remaining potentials of her already circumscribed life. Oona had the standard number of joints in her body. But he would offer odds that she could match and surpass anyone in afflictions to those joints.
As Oona ran on, Koesler’s attention wavered. He looked past Oona out the picture window. Floes were sweeping toward Lake Erie.
Koesler recalled his recent visit to Charlie Nash’s condo apartment, whence could be seen this very same river. There the river was at such a distance that it was challenging to comprehend that the chunks of ice were actually moving. He’d had to focus on a fixed object, such as a building, on the Windsor shore, to detect movement. Now, close up, he could see the ice moving along at a rapid clip. The current was swift and could
Finally, the door opened. Eileen, smiling, stood on tiptoes and delivered a cousinly kiss. She gestured for him to go on in, passing him on the porch as she went to let the beast out into the yard. He renewed his vow that he and the dog would not be in the same space at the same time. He would continue the charade of fearlessness, but he would be sure the dog had been confined once more in the basement before he left.
Appetizing aromas greeted him. Maureen and Mary Lou were doing the cooking. Mary Lou checked her watch. “Good old Uncle Bob,” she said, “right on time.”
Because of the age difference and in spite of the lack of blood relationship, both Brenda and Mary Lou always referred to Oona and Eileen as “Aunt” and to Koesler as either “Father” or “Uncle.” However, both addressed the remaining sister as Maureen. Evidently they did not feel comfortable calling her “Mother.”
Mary Lou greeted Koesler with a cursory hug and a peck on the cheek. Maureen was up to her elbows mashing cooked rutabaga. She looked up and winked at him. He returned the wink.
Eileen entered the kitchen, closing the door quickly behind her. The dog’s roar was restored to the yard. The tenor of its bark had changed. It knew that Koesler had breached the neutral zone—but he would never get out alive.
Koesler volunteered to assist or relieve, even to the mashing of rutabaga. But his offer was declined by all, and he was ordered into the living room; dinner would be ready in a little while.
He removed his jacket and clerical collar and hung them in the hall closet.
In the living room, seated near the picture window, was Oona, complete with a white sling supporting her right arm.
“Happy birthday,” he said. “Hurt your arm?”
Oona audibly sucked in a breath of air in the Irish way of foretokening some sort of doom. “It’s getting harder every year. And now … sixty-five! God have mercy.”
“Go on now, sixty-five isn’t that old.” He was speaking from the vantage of sixty-four. But he was convinced it was a matter of health. With good health, great old age had a measure of youth to it. Without health, youth could have all the disability ordinarily attributed to old age. For Oona, then, sixty-five might just as well be ninety. But Koesler did not want to play to her hypochondria. He would try to keep the conversation light. “And your arm?”
She shrugged. “Arthritis kicking up again.”
Was it arthritis? He knew that in her medicine chest was every conceivable medication, palliative, and supportive bandage, pad, and compress that could be found in a well-stocked pharmacy.
Koesler recalled years before when a smattering of male relatives had attended family parties. Oona had stated that if there were anything to reincarnation, she was going to come back as a man, have a huge dinner prepared by womenfolk, then settle into a comfy chair, loosen her belt, and, while the ladies cleaned up, belch.
Maybe the sling was her version of reincarnation. It clearly had gotten her out of the meal’s preparation and undoubtedly would do the same for the cleanup later.
Oona began to detail the extent to which arthritis had limited the few remaining potentials of her already circumscribed life. Oona had the standard number of joints in her body. But he would offer odds that she could match and surpass anyone in afflictions to those joints.
As Oona ran on, Koesler’s attention wavered. He looked past Oona out the picture window. Floes were sweeping toward Lake Erie.
Koesler recalled his recent visit to Charlie Nash’s condo apartment, whence could be seen this very same river. There the river was at such a distance that it was challenging to comprehend that the chunks of ice were actually moving. He’d had to focus on a fixed object, such as a building, on the Windsor shore, to detect movement. Now, close up, he could see the ice moving along at a rapid clip. The current was swift and could
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