asked.
Old Sam Hensley suddenly bolted upright in his bed and burst into song. “It’s a long way to Tipperary,” he bellowed with surprisingly accurate pitch. “It’s a long way to go!”
Beside him, young Alan Crosby almost fell off his chair with the sudden sound. “Granddad,” he whispered hurriedly, jumping to his feet and looking nervously toward the door. “Sh.”
“Ssh yourself if you don’t like it,” the old man shot back loudly, returning to his song.
“It’s his military period.” Alan smiled meekly at Joanne as his mother and the nurse ran back into the room.
“Oh for God’s sake, Dad, shut up,” Marg Crosby barked as the nurse tried to gently push Sam Hensley back against his pillow.
“There, there, Mr. Hensley,” the nurse was saying, “the concert’s been canceled.”
“Get the hell away from me,” Sam Hensley shouted, taking aim at the woman’s vast girth with a box of tissues from the side table.
“Dad, for God’s sake …”
“Why don’t you just let him sing?” Alan Crosby asked, leaning back against the wall, trying to suppress a smile.
“Oh, Alan,” his mother exclaimed impatiently, “don’t you start, too.”
“Linda,” a frightened voice cried, “what’s all the commotion?”
“It’s all right, Pa,” Joanne whispered, patting her grandfather’s shaking hand reassuringly. “I’m here.”
FIVE
T he phone woke her up at not quite seven o’clock the next morning. “Hello,” Joanne said groggily, wiping her eyes and straining to make out the time on the bedside clock. “Hello? Who is this?”
There was no reply.
Joanne sat fully up in bed, resting the phone in her lap before reaching over and dropping the receiver back onto its cradle. “Damn kids,” she muttered, looking down at the old cotton nightgown she always wore to bed. “No wonder your husband left you.” She pulled the blankets up around her neck, trying to block out the early morning light coming through the bedroom curtains. But as soon as she buried her nose into the soft down of the king-size pillow, she smelled traces of Paul, his absence filtering up through her nostrils. She felt his arm fall carelessly across the raised curve of her hip, his knees burrow in against the backs of her own, pressing her rear end into the arch of his groin.
Her eyes drifted open; Paul was inside her head now and he would stay there for the rest of the day. No matter what she did or where she went, Paul would be rightbeside her. She would take him with her even as she struggled to leave him behind. Her only escape had been a few hours of sleep after she was too exhausted for further recriminations, too worn out for additional regrets. The new day would produce fresh lists of items for which she could berate herself: if only she hadn’t done this; if only she
had
done that. If only Paul would come back, she would be more
this
way, less
that.
She had fallen into bed at one o’clock in the morning, having stayed up to watch a movie she had no desire to see. She was still awake to hear the front door open at just past three, to listen as Robin snuck past her mother’s bedroom, the door to her room closing softly behind her.
It must have been 5 a.m. before Joanne finally succumbed to sleep. Two whole hours, she thought now, trying to will herself several more. It would be hard to look twenty years old on only two hours of sleep a night, and she had concluded just before drifting off to sleep early that morning that her appearance had a great deal to do with Paul’s departure. The woman he married had been twenty-one years old. He hadn’t counted on her getting so noticeably older. Perhaps she should talk to Karen Palmer, ask her who did her eyes …
Joanne was still trying to force herself back to sleep a half hour later when the phone rang again. “Hello?” she whispered, hoping it might be Paul telling her that he couldn’t sleep either, that he wanted to come home. There was no response.
Old Sam Hensley suddenly bolted upright in his bed and burst into song. “It’s a long way to Tipperary,” he bellowed with surprisingly accurate pitch. “It’s a long way to go!”
Beside him, young Alan Crosby almost fell off his chair with the sudden sound. “Granddad,” he whispered hurriedly, jumping to his feet and looking nervously toward the door. “Sh.”
“Ssh yourself if you don’t like it,” the old man shot back loudly, returning to his song.
“It’s his military period.” Alan smiled meekly at Joanne as his mother and the nurse ran back into the room.
“Oh for God’s sake, Dad, shut up,” Marg Crosby barked as the nurse tried to gently push Sam Hensley back against his pillow.
“There, there, Mr. Hensley,” the nurse was saying, “the concert’s been canceled.”
“Get the hell away from me,” Sam Hensley shouted, taking aim at the woman’s vast girth with a box of tissues from the side table.
“Dad, for God’s sake …”
“Why don’t you just let him sing?” Alan Crosby asked, leaning back against the wall, trying to suppress a smile.
“Oh, Alan,” his mother exclaimed impatiently, “don’t you start, too.”
“Linda,” a frightened voice cried, “what’s all the commotion?”
“It’s all right, Pa,” Joanne whispered, patting her grandfather’s shaking hand reassuringly. “I’m here.”
FIVE
T he phone woke her up at not quite seven o’clock the next morning. “Hello,” Joanne said groggily, wiping her eyes and straining to make out the time on the bedside clock. “Hello? Who is this?”
There was no reply.
Joanne sat fully up in bed, resting the phone in her lap before reaching over and dropping the receiver back onto its cradle. “Damn kids,” she muttered, looking down at the old cotton nightgown she always wore to bed. “No wonder your husband left you.” She pulled the blankets up around her neck, trying to block out the early morning light coming through the bedroom curtains. But as soon as she buried her nose into the soft down of the king-size pillow, she smelled traces of Paul, his absence filtering up through her nostrils. She felt his arm fall carelessly across the raised curve of her hip, his knees burrow in against the backs of her own, pressing her rear end into the arch of his groin.
Her eyes drifted open; Paul was inside her head now and he would stay there for the rest of the day. No matter what she did or where she went, Paul would be rightbeside her. She would take him with her even as she struggled to leave him behind. Her only escape had been a few hours of sleep after she was too exhausted for further recriminations, too worn out for additional regrets. The new day would produce fresh lists of items for which she could berate herself: if only she hadn’t done this; if only she
had
done that. If only Paul would come back, she would be more
this
way, less
that.
She had fallen into bed at one o’clock in the morning, having stayed up to watch a movie she had no desire to see. She was still awake to hear the front door open at just past three, to listen as Robin snuck past her mother’s bedroom, the door to her room closing softly behind her.
It must have been 5 a.m. before Joanne finally succumbed to sleep. Two whole hours, she thought now, trying to will herself several more. It would be hard to look twenty years old on only two hours of sleep a night, and she had concluded just before drifting off to sleep early that morning that her appearance had a great deal to do with Paul’s departure. The woman he married had been twenty-one years old. He hadn’t counted on her getting so noticeably older. Perhaps she should talk to Karen Palmer, ask her who did her eyes …
Joanne was still trying to force herself back to sleep a half hour later when the phone rang again. “Hello?” she whispered, hoping it might be Paul telling her that he couldn’t sleep either, that he wanted to come home. There was no response.
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