until the whole set, tray and all, shone so brightly it hurt your eyes to look at it. Mavis says, “We asked a couple of the old ladies to use theirs. They were thrilled.”
The main door at the far end of the hall opens, and a plump, young blonde woman in a faded blue winter coat, carrying one child on her hip and herding two little girls ahead of her, pushes her way in. In the second before she moves toward the coat racks and is hidden from Iris’s view, Iris recognizes her: Angela, Lannie’s best friend from school. She excuses herself and, skirting tables, walks the length of the hall to the cloakroom. Angela has set the little boy down and is straightening his bow tie with one hand, her children’s coats over her arm.
“Angela!” Iris says. “It’s been ages!” Angela straightens awkwardly from her task, smiles when she sees it’s Iris and says, “Emma, take Cory to the bathroom. Make sure he washes his hands.” The girlgrabs the boy’s hand and leads him away. The second little girl peers at Iris from behind her mother’s skirt.
“Hasn’t it,” Angela replies. “I’m so busy these days I hardly know if I’m coming or going. I’ve got two pre-schoolers now, you know. Orland stayed home to look after the baby.” And Lannie, godmother to Emma who must be ten years old by now, an infant when Lannie left home.
“Are you well?” Iris asks, confused, not sure any more what to say or not say, pushing away the memory of hanging up the phone on Angela to rush upstairs to Lannie’s room, finding her there unconscious on her bed, God knew for how long —
“Oh, sure, although I’m fat as a pig. You’d think with all this running around I’d weigh about four pounds, but no such luck.” She sets the children’s jackets in a pile in the corner, struggles out of her own coat and hangs it up.
In that moment’s pause Iris tries not to, but sees the letters. Not letters, really, just scraps of paper torn from notebooks or stick-it pads she’d found in Lannie’s macramé book bag when, long after Lannie had left and it looked as if it would be a long time before she’d return, Iris decided to do something about her bedroom. From men, they were, boyfriends:
“Hi, Lan — meet me at the Sub at eight. Tim
.” Iris knows from her year at university that the Sub is the Student Union Building, and she’s met Tim, a nice boy, she’d thought, and clearly in love with Lannie. The others —
“I knew you’d be here today,” Angela says. “I wanted to ask … I was wondering, have you heard from Lannie lately?” Then, not waiting for Iris’s answer, she rushes on. “I’m really sorry to upset you. I mean, if you haven’t heard from her, but, it came into my head this morning when I was vacuuming and it wouldn’t go away — you know how that is?” She means, of course, when an intuition hits you, but Iris hasn’t Angela’s gift.
“I haven’t, no,” she says, trying to sound cheerful. “And you haven’t upset me. Do you know something? Have you had any letters? Any cards?” She laughs, pretending to be amused. “No telegrams? Smoke signals maybe?”
“Not since that postcard maybe three years ago. You know theone, from Iraklion, was it? In Greece — some island. Oh, Crete, I think. She must have been travelling.”
“What I’m thinking,” Iris says, “is that maybe she travelled herself right off the globe. Right into oblivion.” She’s appalled at her flash of anger.
“I’m going back
,” the card had ended. But back where?
“Don’t think that,” Angela says. “She’s all right. If I felt there was something wrong with her, I’d have told you.” Her voice is steady, clear.
“I really hope we’ll hear something soon,” Iris replies, retreating. Angela’s little girl, who looks to be about eight, is walking the length of a rack of coats, humming and running an arm down them, making the coats sway.
“Don’t Sarah,” Angela cries. “Stop that.”
Iris wants
The main door at the far end of the hall opens, and a plump, young blonde woman in a faded blue winter coat, carrying one child on her hip and herding two little girls ahead of her, pushes her way in. In the second before she moves toward the coat racks and is hidden from Iris’s view, Iris recognizes her: Angela, Lannie’s best friend from school. She excuses herself and, skirting tables, walks the length of the hall to the cloakroom. Angela has set the little boy down and is straightening his bow tie with one hand, her children’s coats over her arm.
“Angela!” Iris says. “It’s been ages!” Angela straightens awkwardly from her task, smiles when she sees it’s Iris and says, “Emma, take Cory to the bathroom. Make sure he washes his hands.” The girlgrabs the boy’s hand and leads him away. The second little girl peers at Iris from behind her mother’s skirt.
“Hasn’t it,” Angela replies. “I’m so busy these days I hardly know if I’m coming or going. I’ve got two pre-schoolers now, you know. Orland stayed home to look after the baby.” And Lannie, godmother to Emma who must be ten years old by now, an infant when Lannie left home.
“Are you well?” Iris asks, confused, not sure any more what to say or not say, pushing away the memory of hanging up the phone on Angela to rush upstairs to Lannie’s room, finding her there unconscious on her bed, God knew for how long —
“Oh, sure, although I’m fat as a pig. You’d think with all this running around I’d weigh about four pounds, but no such luck.” She sets the children’s jackets in a pile in the corner, struggles out of her own coat and hangs it up.
In that moment’s pause Iris tries not to, but sees the letters. Not letters, really, just scraps of paper torn from notebooks or stick-it pads she’d found in Lannie’s macramé book bag when, long after Lannie had left and it looked as if it would be a long time before she’d return, Iris decided to do something about her bedroom. From men, they were, boyfriends:
“Hi, Lan — meet me at the Sub at eight. Tim
.” Iris knows from her year at university that the Sub is the Student Union Building, and she’s met Tim, a nice boy, she’d thought, and clearly in love with Lannie. The others —
“I knew you’d be here today,” Angela says. “I wanted to ask … I was wondering, have you heard from Lannie lately?” Then, not waiting for Iris’s answer, she rushes on. “I’m really sorry to upset you. I mean, if you haven’t heard from her, but, it came into my head this morning when I was vacuuming and it wouldn’t go away — you know how that is?” She means, of course, when an intuition hits you, but Iris hasn’t Angela’s gift.
“I haven’t, no,” she says, trying to sound cheerful. “And you haven’t upset me. Do you know something? Have you had any letters? Any cards?” She laughs, pretending to be amused. “No telegrams? Smoke signals maybe?”
“Not since that postcard maybe three years ago. You know theone, from Iraklion, was it? In Greece — some island. Oh, Crete, I think. She must have been travelling.”
“What I’m thinking,” Iris says, “is that maybe she travelled herself right off the globe. Right into oblivion.” She’s appalled at her flash of anger.
“I’m going back
,” the card had ended. But back where?
“Don’t think that,” Angela says. “She’s all right. If I felt there was something wrong with her, I’d have told you.” Her voice is steady, clear.
“I really hope we’ll hear something soon,” Iris replies, retreating. Angela’s little girl, who looks to be about eight, is walking the length of a rack of coats, humming and running an arm down them, making the coats sway.
“Don’t Sarah,” Angela cries. “Stop that.”
Iris wants
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