homemade mead and she thinks now how good it was, dry and sparkling. It looked like champagne. She checks to see if there is any left in the bottle. About half a glass. She pours it out for herself, sets her glass behind the blender, rinses the bottle.
“You have a good life here,” Catherine says.
“I have a fine life. Yes.”
“I feel a change coming in my life. I love David, but I’ve been submerged in this love for so long. Too long. Do you know what I mean? I was down looking at the waves and I started saying, ‘Heloves me, he loves me not.’ I do that often. Then I thought, Well, there isn’t any end to the waves, not like there is to a daisy. Or even like there is to my footsteps, if I start counting them to the end of the block. I thought, The waves never, ever come to an end. So then I knew, this is a message for me.”
“Just leave the pots, Catherine. I’ll deal with them later.”
Why doesn’t Stella say, “Sit down, I can manage better by myself”? It’s a thing she has said often to helpers less inept than Catherine. She doesn’t say it because she’s wary of something. Catherine’s state seems so brittle and delicate. Tripping her up could have consequences.
“He loves me, he loves me not,” says Catherine. “That’s the way it goes. It goes forever. That’s what the waves were trying to tell me.”
“Just out of curiosity,” says Stella, “do you believe in horoscopes?”
“You mean have I had mine done? No, not really. I know people who have. I’ve thought about it. I guess I don’t quite believe in it enough to spend the money. I look at those things in the newspapers sometimes.”
“You read the newspapers?”
“I read parts. I get one delivered. I don’t read it all.”
“And you eat meat? You ate pork for dinner.”
Catherine doesn’t seem to mind being interrogated, or even to notice that this is an interrogation.
“Well, I can live on salads, particularly at this time of year. But I do eat meat from time to time. I’m a sort of very lackadaisical vegetarian. It was fantastic, that roast. Did you put garlic on it?”
“Garlic and sage and rosemary.”
“It was delicious.”
“I’m glad.”
Catherine sits down suddenly, and spreads out her long legs in a tomboyish way, letting her dress droop between them. Hercules, who has slept all through dinner on the fourth chair, at the other side of the table, takes a determined leap and lands on what there is of her lap.
Catherine laughs. “Crazy cat.”
“If he bothers you, just bat him off.”
Freed now of the need to watch Catherine, Stella gets busy scraping and stacking the plates, rinsing glasses, cleaning off the table, shaking the cloth, wiping the counters. She feels well satisfied and full of energy. She takes a sip of the mead. Lines of a song are going through her head, and she doesn’t realize until a few words of this song reach the surface that it’s the same one David was singing, earlier in the day. “What’s to come is still unsure!”
Catherine gives a light snore, and jerks her head up. Hercules doesn’t take fright, but tries to settle himself more permanently, getting his claws into her dress.
“Was that me?” says Catherine.
“You need some coffee,” Stella says. “Hang on. You probably shouldn’t go to sleep right now.”
“I’m tired,” says Catherine stubbornly.
“I know. But you shouldn’t go to sleep right now. Hang on, and we’ll get some coffee into you.”
Stella takes a hand towel from the drawer, soaks it in cold water, holds it to Catherine’s face.
“There, now,” says Stella. “You hold it, I’ll start the coffee. We’re not going to have you passing out here, are we? David would carry on about it. He’d say it was my mead or my cooking or my company, or something. Hang on, Catherine.”
David, in the phone booth, begins to dial Dina’s number. Then he remembers that it’s long distance. He must dial the operator. He dials the operator,
“You have a good life here,” Catherine says.
“I have a fine life. Yes.”
“I feel a change coming in my life. I love David, but I’ve been submerged in this love for so long. Too long. Do you know what I mean? I was down looking at the waves and I started saying, ‘Heloves me, he loves me not.’ I do that often. Then I thought, Well, there isn’t any end to the waves, not like there is to a daisy. Or even like there is to my footsteps, if I start counting them to the end of the block. I thought, The waves never, ever come to an end. So then I knew, this is a message for me.”
“Just leave the pots, Catherine. I’ll deal with them later.”
Why doesn’t Stella say, “Sit down, I can manage better by myself”? It’s a thing she has said often to helpers less inept than Catherine. She doesn’t say it because she’s wary of something. Catherine’s state seems so brittle and delicate. Tripping her up could have consequences.
“He loves me, he loves me not,” says Catherine. “That’s the way it goes. It goes forever. That’s what the waves were trying to tell me.”
“Just out of curiosity,” says Stella, “do you believe in horoscopes?”
“You mean have I had mine done? No, not really. I know people who have. I’ve thought about it. I guess I don’t quite believe in it enough to spend the money. I look at those things in the newspapers sometimes.”
“You read the newspapers?”
“I read parts. I get one delivered. I don’t read it all.”
“And you eat meat? You ate pork for dinner.”
Catherine doesn’t seem to mind being interrogated, or even to notice that this is an interrogation.
“Well, I can live on salads, particularly at this time of year. But I do eat meat from time to time. I’m a sort of very lackadaisical vegetarian. It was fantastic, that roast. Did you put garlic on it?”
“Garlic and sage and rosemary.”
“It was delicious.”
“I’m glad.”
Catherine sits down suddenly, and spreads out her long legs in a tomboyish way, letting her dress droop between them. Hercules, who has slept all through dinner on the fourth chair, at the other side of the table, takes a determined leap and lands on what there is of her lap.
Catherine laughs. “Crazy cat.”
“If he bothers you, just bat him off.”
Freed now of the need to watch Catherine, Stella gets busy scraping and stacking the plates, rinsing glasses, cleaning off the table, shaking the cloth, wiping the counters. She feels well satisfied and full of energy. She takes a sip of the mead. Lines of a song are going through her head, and she doesn’t realize until a few words of this song reach the surface that it’s the same one David was singing, earlier in the day. “What’s to come is still unsure!”
Catherine gives a light snore, and jerks her head up. Hercules doesn’t take fright, but tries to settle himself more permanently, getting his claws into her dress.
“Was that me?” says Catherine.
“You need some coffee,” Stella says. “Hang on. You probably shouldn’t go to sleep right now.”
“I’m tired,” says Catherine stubbornly.
“I know. But you shouldn’t go to sleep right now. Hang on, and we’ll get some coffee into you.”
Stella takes a hand towel from the drawer, soaks it in cold water, holds it to Catherine’s face.
“There, now,” says Stella. “You hold it, I’ll start the coffee. We’re not going to have you passing out here, are we? David would carry on about it. He’d say it was my mead or my cooking or my company, or something. Hang on, Catherine.”
David, in the phone booth, begins to dial Dina’s number. Then he remembers that it’s long distance. He must dial the operator. He dials the operator,
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