turned away.
“Really, Lorna,” Winifred reproached under her breath. Fiona said nothing, just became very interested in the contents of her purse. Alasdair went back to his coffee preparations. He did not look up again. Lorna began scrubbing and rinsing the sink with hot energy, and when she was finished, she turned her irritation toward the countertops, cluttered with a week’s worth of debris.
There were phone messages, a schoolbook of Samantha’s, a clean, empty baby bottle, two dirty spoons, a yellow writing tablet, a cracked mug full of pens and pencils, two letters addressed to the Reverend Alasdair MacPherson, John Knox Presbyterian Church, 922 Fairfax Street, Alexandria, Virginia, one from B. Henry, 33 Harrison Street, Richmond, Virginia, another with the Old English Italic letterhead of the United Presbyterian Church denomination headquarters in the same city, both neatly sliced open along their folds. One small glove, looking lost without its mate.
The entire house needed a good going-over. She should take down the curtains over the sink and give them a wash. They were awful—gold things with brown rickrack and a fringe of little orange balls around the bottom. In fact, everything was awful. The wallpaper was dark—a pattern of orangeand brown mushrooms against a green background. The cupboards were dark and outdated. The paneling on the bottom half of the walls was dark. All in all, the room gave the effect of moldering decay and depression. And Lorna had to admit it had been that way even when Anna was alive.
“I’m going to finish reviewing tonight’s sermon.” Alasdair flipped the switch on the coffeemaker and it began to gurgle. He looked each of them in the eye. “As always, I thank you for all your help.” His face was once again wiped smooth of any expression.
Lorna shook her head and felt frustration mixed with a searing sadness as she thought of her sister-in-law’s legacy: a small brass marker in the churchyard next door, a perpetual collection of brown-tipped potted plants with limp ribbons at the bank of the Potomac beneath the Woodrow Wilson Bridge, three motherless children, and a husband who became more untouchable each day. Her mouth opened, once again without her conscious intention, and she spoke, the words fueled by this unfamiliar emotion.
“Anna died October fifteenth, two years ago. This is the twenty-fourth of October. That makes it two years, one week, and two days.”
No one spoke. Alasdair turned back and stared at her for a moment. She was half afraid of his anger, half hoping for it, but when he spoke his voice was steady, his face expressionless except for those desolate eyes. “Well, then. There you have it. Argument settled.” He turned and left the room.
Fiona and Winifred gave her disapproving looks behind his back. She started to call out, hesitated, then followed him. She reached the hallway as he came to the stairs. She opened her mouth to speak, to apologize, but something stopped her.
Alasdair had stopped at the bottom step, his hand on the banister, head bowed. His shoulders were rounded and she wasn’t sure if he was praying, weeping, or simply gathering strength. She felt a strong whip of shame at her cruelty. Sheopened her mouth again, but once more something stopped her.
No, a still, small voice corrected. Leave him.
She nodded, blinking back tears. Alasdair raised his head. His shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath. He climbed the stairs. She watched until he disappeared from sight, then returned to the kitchen where her sisters awaited.
“What in the world was that about?” Winifred demanded, furious.
“Really, Lorna. I should think you’d want him to put it behind him,” Fiona added gently.
Lorna had no answer. She felt very ashamed of herself. Her anger had fizzled out like a wet sparkler. What had she been thinking? What was she trying to prove?
Her sisters shunned further conversation with her, turned as if by mutual
“Really, Lorna,” Winifred reproached under her breath. Fiona said nothing, just became very interested in the contents of her purse. Alasdair went back to his coffee preparations. He did not look up again. Lorna began scrubbing and rinsing the sink with hot energy, and when she was finished, she turned her irritation toward the countertops, cluttered with a week’s worth of debris.
There were phone messages, a schoolbook of Samantha’s, a clean, empty baby bottle, two dirty spoons, a yellow writing tablet, a cracked mug full of pens and pencils, two letters addressed to the Reverend Alasdair MacPherson, John Knox Presbyterian Church, 922 Fairfax Street, Alexandria, Virginia, one from B. Henry, 33 Harrison Street, Richmond, Virginia, another with the Old English Italic letterhead of the United Presbyterian Church denomination headquarters in the same city, both neatly sliced open along their folds. One small glove, looking lost without its mate.
The entire house needed a good going-over. She should take down the curtains over the sink and give them a wash. They were awful—gold things with brown rickrack and a fringe of little orange balls around the bottom. In fact, everything was awful. The wallpaper was dark—a pattern of orangeand brown mushrooms against a green background. The cupboards were dark and outdated. The paneling on the bottom half of the walls was dark. All in all, the room gave the effect of moldering decay and depression. And Lorna had to admit it had been that way even when Anna was alive.
“I’m going to finish reviewing tonight’s sermon.” Alasdair flipped the switch on the coffeemaker and it began to gurgle. He looked each of them in the eye. “As always, I thank you for all your help.” His face was once again wiped smooth of any expression.
Lorna shook her head and felt frustration mixed with a searing sadness as she thought of her sister-in-law’s legacy: a small brass marker in the churchyard next door, a perpetual collection of brown-tipped potted plants with limp ribbons at the bank of the Potomac beneath the Woodrow Wilson Bridge, three motherless children, and a husband who became more untouchable each day. Her mouth opened, once again without her conscious intention, and she spoke, the words fueled by this unfamiliar emotion.
“Anna died October fifteenth, two years ago. This is the twenty-fourth of October. That makes it two years, one week, and two days.”
No one spoke. Alasdair turned back and stared at her for a moment. She was half afraid of his anger, half hoping for it, but when he spoke his voice was steady, his face expressionless except for those desolate eyes. “Well, then. There you have it. Argument settled.” He turned and left the room.
Fiona and Winifred gave her disapproving looks behind his back. She started to call out, hesitated, then followed him. She reached the hallway as he came to the stairs. She opened her mouth to speak, to apologize, but something stopped her.
Alasdair had stopped at the bottom step, his hand on the banister, head bowed. His shoulders were rounded and she wasn’t sure if he was praying, weeping, or simply gathering strength. She felt a strong whip of shame at her cruelty. Sheopened her mouth again, but once more something stopped her.
No, a still, small voice corrected. Leave him.
She nodded, blinking back tears. Alasdair raised his head. His shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath. He climbed the stairs. She watched until he disappeared from sight, then returned to the kitchen where her sisters awaited.
“What in the world was that about?” Winifred demanded, furious.
“Really, Lorna. I should think you’d want him to put it behind him,” Fiona added gently.
Lorna had no answer. She felt very ashamed of herself. Her anger had fizzled out like a wet sparkler. What had she been thinking? What was she trying to prove?
Her sisters shunned further conversation with her, turned as if by mutual
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