The Four Temperaments by Yona Zeldis McDonough

did volunteer work. On Mondays, she traveled up the West Side to a Jewish nursing home where the floors were cleaned and buffed only in the center; the sides—the hallways, the residents' rooms, the public areas—were always cloudy with dirt and dust. She always brought things: issues of the
New Yorker
that Oscar had finished with, a bottle or two of nail polish, the latest pictures of her baby granddaughter, Isobel.
    This was how her most recent morning at the home went: Ruth painted Mrs. Fishbein's nails with three coats of Revlon's Cherries in the Snow and then they watched a cooking show. Ruth brought the magazines to Mr. Blustain, who took them with hands afflicted by a permanent trembling. She visited with Tillie Dienstag, whose blue-rinsed hair and loud laugh reminded her a little of Pip. It was a good day until she reached Mrs. Goldenfarb's room and found it not only empty but also stripped of her things: the tiny framed pictures of her grandchildren and great-grandchildren, the papier-mâché bride and groom that had sat on her wedding cake sixty years ago, the porcelain bell she bought on a trip to Ireland with her late husband.
    â€œShe's gone,” said the orderly who was pulling sheets off the rubber-encased mattress.
    â€œGone?” Ruth knew what he meant but was, as her children might have said, in denial.
    â€œLast night. She went peacefully. In her sleep. Did you know her well?”
    â€œNot very,” Ruth said, thinking of the hands of gin rummy they would not play that day and of the baby pictures over which they would not exclaim.
    On Wednesdays,
Ruth took the bus to the East Side of Manhattan, where she spent the morning playing with babies. These were not sick babies, although most were a little more frail than normal, given their difficult passage into the world. She was not sure she would have been up to dealing with the ones who had AIDS or cancer, so she didn't try. But these were babies whose mothers were sick, or addicted to crack cocaine, and needed some sort of medical supervision. Often, there were no parents—they were in jail, or in detox—to hold and snuggle them, and the nurses, God bless these hardworking, wonderful girls, didn't have the time. But Ruth did. When she arrived, she went straight to see Blossom, one of her favorites. Blossom weighed barely three pounds when she was born and three months later, she weighed only seven. After putting on the gown, cap and mask—Blossom's immune system was still compromised—Ruth scooped her up and brought her to the window, which looked out over Fifth Avenue. “See the trees?” Ruth cooed. “See how the leaves are turning colors?” Blossom's eyes seemed to follow her gaze. Although small, she was very alert, which was part of what Ruth loved about her. Also her tiny dark curls, and beautifully shaped mouth.
    When Ruth ordered something for her granddaughter, Isobel, she always ordered a few extra onesies and knitted caps and brought them with her to the hospital. Ruth let the nurses distribute them the way they thought best, but she did ask that Blossom get a cap. Recently, the stories here had been good: Blossom had been gaining weight; Michel's aunt and uncle were given custody and would be taking him home; Kyra's lung infection finally cleared up.
    Sometimes Ruth
thought about adding another day to her volunteering, but Oscar was against it. He thought she spent too much time with strangers as it was. “They're not strangers to me,” Ruth tried to tell him. He thought she should spend more time with her family. God knew Ruth would have loved to. But Gabriel and Penelope were far away in California, and, besides, Penelope was what Ruth's mother would have called “high-strung.” Ruth didn't really think Penelope would want her around that often, given the way she was so particular about every aspect of Isobel's life. Only breast milk and organically grown cereal and