Nora and Liz by Nancy Garden Page B

especially now outside in her garden, to think about leaving. Liz could see her fixing the place up, perhaps, but not leaving it.
    “Oh, yes. Silly dreams. But only when I’m tired.”
    “That must be pretty often,” Liz said. “I mean,” she went on, flustered, afraid of being rude, “yours must be a pretty hard life.”
    “As I said, it’s how people lived not so long ago. And I do like the peacefulness of it, the solitude. But then when I get the Sunday papers—a woman from church takes me to get them after the service—and I read casual references to things like computers and see ads for appliances and TVs, I realize how much free time most people must have. Oceans of time. Then I guess I do get a little envious.”
    Liz grinned. “We should have oceans of time,” she said, watching Thomas, who had stood up and was intently stalking a butterfly. “But most of us don’t. I guess we don’t know how to use the leisure all that helpful stuff has given us. It seems ridiculous, but there we are.”
    “I think people use the time they have,” Nora said, also watching Thomas. “People don’t like being completely idle, at least most don’t. So they find things to do in whatever time they have.”
    “Lots of people waste time, though. The mothers of some of my students spend hours watching soaps, for instance.”
    “Soaps?”
    “Soap operas. On TV”
    Nora nodded uncertainly, and Liz realized she’d probably never seen one.
    “They’re like little dramas,” she explained. “Continuing stories. Each day there’s a new episode.”
    “That must be nice,” Nora said. “I remember now. I’ve read about them. They must be like novels. Serial stories.”
    “Well, sort of. But most of the stories are dumb. Lots of sex, lots of complicated relationships, very melodramatic. If they were books, they’d be considered trashy by anyone who’s really into literature.”
    “Are you?” Nora asked. Thomas batted at the butterfly and missed.
    “Am I what?”
    “Into literature?”
    “I suppose so. I don’t have much time for reading, though.”
    “I like Jane Austen,” Nora said. “And Emily Dickinson, and Henry James. More than modern books. I sometimes get best sellers when they come in to the library, though. Mrs. Brice, that’s the church lady, gets them for me. But I don’t think most of them are very good.”
    “No,” Liz replied uncomfortably, “I guess not.” She hadn’t read Jane Austen or Emily Dickinson since school, and she’d never read Henry James. You’re outclassed, kiddo, she said to herself, amused, by someone who’s never seen a computer or watched TV. How about that?
    “Would you like to come in? I made some lemonade earlier, for my mother. Or we could have tea.”
    Liz looked at her watch. “I’d love to, but I think I’d better get going. It’s a long drive to New York.”
    “Won’t it be dark when you get there?” Nora asked, concern spreading over her features.
    “Maybe,” Liz said, amused again. “Depends on how many stops I make. But that’s okay. I actually like driving in the dark.”
    Nora shuddered. “I’d be afraid,” she said. “Not of the dark itself; I’m used to that. Of the city in the dark. But I suppose there are lots of lights.”
    “Yes. There are. Well…” Liz held out the bundle of tools. “Here’s your jack and stuff. Thanks again for helping me out.”
    Awkwardly, Nora took the package. “You’re welcome. Um, stop by when you come back. If you want. You know. In the summer.”
    “Sure,” Liz said easily, sure that she wouldn’t, then not sure. “That’d be fine. Okay, then. See you.”
    “Yes.” Nora smiled. “See you,” she added, more comfortably than she’d said it when Liz had left with the jack.
    Nora watched Liz go, and realized only after the car had disappeared that she was still holding the tools. “I wonder if she’ll come back,” she said out loud to Thomas, who had given up on the butterfly and was