Skyscape by Michael Cadnum Page B

conversation, a way of indicating that Curtis must not be entirely okay. “I would so much like to talk to him,” she said.
    â€œHe’s resting,” said Margaret. It was true enough.
    â€œI was so hoping I could say something to him, offer our condolences—”
    â€œNot right now,” said Margaret.
    There was another, careful little pause. “Do give him our love,” said Andrea. “And if you need to talk to me, about anything …”
    Her mother’s use of our was something new. As she communicated polite concern, with an underlying, natural fascination with bad news, she was also letting Margaret know something about the future.
    Mrs. Wye brought a plate of peanut butter cookies. The white-haired woman was stronger, now, perhaps because there was misfortune to be shared—a misfortune not her own.
    â€œYou shouldn’t have come up all this way,” said Margaret.
    â€œI just wanted to do anything I could do,” said Mrs. Wye.
    Margaret thanked her, and tasted one of the still-warm cookies. It was delicious, and Margaret said so.
    â€œI was hoping I could see the poor man,” said Mrs. Wye.
    â€œHe needs some time to himself,” said Margaret.
    â€œOf course he does. He must be devastated.”
    â€œIt’s hard,” said Margaret.
    â€œAnd you look tired, too, dear Margaret.”
    â€œNot really.”
    Mrs. Wye stood there, one hand gripping an aluminum walking stick, the white rubber tip of the stick punched into the carpet. The carpet puckered there, slightly, as though Mrs. Wye was a much stronger, heavier person who had arrived to stand rooted on the spot. “I think I know what’s happening.”
    There were eleven cookies left, petite pats of dough that had been indented by the tines of a fork before baking. They rested on a bone-white Spode plate. Behind the cookies, on the pattern of the plate, Margaret could make out a hunting scene. A woman on a horse was barely making it over a rail fence.
    Maybe I am tired, thought Margaret. Too tired for conversation, anyway.
    â€œHow is he, in fact?” asked Mrs. Wye. She emphasized in fact .
    â€œYou don’t need to worry,” said Margaret.
    Mrs. Wye gave the slightest smile—she knew. “I know how he must feel. Art is the way we expand out of ourselves, and into the future.” Mrs. Wye shivered with the intensity of her feeling. “I hope he won’t suffer a relapse, Margaret.”
    Margaret felt a kinship with Mrs. Wye. It was a sudden rush of gratitude, affection. “You know how fond he is of you.”
    Mrs. Wye’s voice was strong. She lifted the aluminum stick. “If you need my help …”
    Margaret thanked her.
    â€œPeople expect everything of us,” said Mrs. Wye.
    â€œMaybe they should,” said Margaret, knowing that Mrs. Wye did not mean simply people . “Maybe we’re stronger than they are.”
    Mrs. Wye was gone before Margaret remembered the photo album. Margaret wanted to share these images with Mrs. Wye, but instead she sat alone holding the big, hand-bound book, leafing through the pages herself. Here was Curtis smiling, hands on his hips, Stinson Beach stretching behind him. Here was Margaret on the same beach, her turn now, smiling back at Curtis. It was painful to see how happy they were.
    And here was a picture taken at Santa Cruz. Curtis had swept her along in a sudden desire to drive down Highway 1, and Margaret had left the radio playing in her apartment, her drafting table lamp on, forgetting everything but Curtis. He had been like that in those days, impetuous, joyful.
    Here was a photo taken by a stranger, a man happy to oblige. Two people stood smiling, windblown, just a little sunburned. Curtis had his arm around her. That night they had made love, the lights of the boardwalk spinning, the twirling necklace of the ferris wheel far beyond the motel window. She could see the light in her