looked up at the second floor of the house opposite. A fine web of ivy had overtaken the entire face and hung in strands, like hair from the withers of an ox.
—Born at the very hour, she said.
A woman was passing selling bread. She had a dark green shawl wrapped over her shoulders, and her basket had a thick leather strap that held it to her back.
Loring bought a loaf of bread from the woman and took it indoors. It was still hot from the oven. The woman must just have come from baking. Yet she did not have the look of someone who had just baked something. Perhaps she was the sister of the baker. What should such a person look like?
The Third Visit, 2
—I have a question, the boy said.
—What is it?
—How did Ezra become so strong?
—It was a part of him, of his habits, his style. He had enough will to force himself to do what he wanted to do. He arranged his life in such a way that all his activities supported his great hope, of being the champion. Even I, even my chess playing became arranged so that I would play in the way that would best serve the development of his skill. He wasn’t very nice, and he wasn’t very likeable. Not many people liked him. But being liked wasn’t what he wanted. Later, of course, he was very beloved, but that’s different from being liked. The main thing was, he beat them all, every last one.
—Do you think I could do the same?
The cloth of the boy’s sweater had pilled. Loring pulled at it and set the fragment on the table.
—What do you mean?
—Well, perhaps if I learned about him, it would help me to be like him, to become a master.
—I can tell you many things about him, and show you, she said.
And she thought, If you are listening, please go and sit in the chair on the other side of the room.
A moment passed. Another. The glass of the windows looked suddenly very thin to Loring and she wondered how it could be that none of the panes had ever broken, not in all the years the house had stood.
The boy went and sat in the chair. He was holding something in his hand.
—What’s that? asked Loring.
—It’s an apple, he said.
She pried open his hand. It was the core of an apple.
—That’s not an apple, she said. It was an apple.
—It is an apple to me, said Stan.
—I am going to cut this bread, she said. Would you like some?
They went then into the kitchen, and something stops us from following.
Nonetheless, my love, I hold out my hand only to you as the train departs!
By what notion Loring had preserved that sense of herself which was her husband’s, we cannot say. Perhaps that was what was in the box, for certainly it was nothing she knew of. Yet, the sense remained, she was the same person, and in the same way, as though he were still beholding her and keeping her to the idea of her that he had always had.
They used to say to each other, when one would leave the house, the one staying would say:
Nonetheless, my love, I hold out my hand only to you as the train departs!
And the other would smile and go.
That There Should Be a Game of Sorts
did Loring decide. That the boy should be encouraged to play, but slowly, slowly—that also was decided. But none of it was in the nature of persuasion. Loring was not trying to persuade herself of anything, and certainly, she did not want to persuade the boy of something that wasn’t true. Rather, she was investigating, and the thing she saw was terrifying, entrancing.
—I do not believe there is any other world, she said.
—Another world? asked Stan.
They were speaking of metaphysical matters. Stan was continually asking questions about dreams.
—Yes, there are many who will tell you about it, but it must not be true.
—Why is that?
—Not because no one has come back from it, said Loring. But, because…
And here she paused.
—Because why?
Loring fussed with the edge of the tablecloth a moment.
—Because nothing is ever that way—the way people guess it will be. And so many want it to be
—Born at the very hour, she said.
A woman was passing selling bread. She had a dark green shawl wrapped over her shoulders, and her basket had a thick leather strap that held it to her back.
Loring bought a loaf of bread from the woman and took it indoors. It was still hot from the oven. The woman must just have come from baking. Yet she did not have the look of someone who had just baked something. Perhaps she was the sister of the baker. What should such a person look like?
The Third Visit, 2
—I have a question, the boy said.
—What is it?
—How did Ezra become so strong?
—It was a part of him, of his habits, his style. He had enough will to force himself to do what he wanted to do. He arranged his life in such a way that all his activities supported his great hope, of being the champion. Even I, even my chess playing became arranged so that I would play in the way that would best serve the development of his skill. He wasn’t very nice, and he wasn’t very likeable. Not many people liked him. But being liked wasn’t what he wanted. Later, of course, he was very beloved, but that’s different from being liked. The main thing was, he beat them all, every last one.
—Do you think I could do the same?
The cloth of the boy’s sweater had pilled. Loring pulled at it and set the fragment on the table.
—What do you mean?
—Well, perhaps if I learned about him, it would help me to be like him, to become a master.
—I can tell you many things about him, and show you, she said.
And she thought, If you are listening, please go and sit in the chair on the other side of the room.
A moment passed. Another. The glass of the windows looked suddenly very thin to Loring and she wondered how it could be that none of the panes had ever broken, not in all the years the house had stood.
The boy went and sat in the chair. He was holding something in his hand.
—What’s that? asked Loring.
—It’s an apple, he said.
She pried open his hand. It was the core of an apple.
—That’s not an apple, she said. It was an apple.
—It is an apple to me, said Stan.
—I am going to cut this bread, she said. Would you like some?
They went then into the kitchen, and something stops us from following.
Nonetheless, my love, I hold out my hand only to you as the train departs!
By what notion Loring had preserved that sense of herself which was her husband’s, we cannot say. Perhaps that was what was in the box, for certainly it was nothing she knew of. Yet, the sense remained, she was the same person, and in the same way, as though he were still beholding her and keeping her to the idea of her that he had always had.
They used to say to each other, when one would leave the house, the one staying would say:
Nonetheless, my love, I hold out my hand only to you as the train departs!
And the other would smile and go.
That There Should Be a Game of Sorts
did Loring decide. That the boy should be encouraged to play, but slowly, slowly—that also was decided. But none of it was in the nature of persuasion. Loring was not trying to persuade herself of anything, and certainly, she did not want to persuade the boy of something that wasn’t true. Rather, she was investigating, and the thing she saw was terrifying, entrancing.
—I do not believe there is any other world, she said.
—Another world? asked Stan.
They were speaking of metaphysical matters. Stan was continually asking questions about dreams.
—Yes, there are many who will tell you about it, but it must not be true.
—Why is that?
—Not because no one has come back from it, said Loring. But, because…
And here she paused.
—Because why?
Loring fussed with the edge of the tablecloth a moment.
—Because nothing is ever that way—the way people guess it will be. And so many want it to be
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