and promises.
She walked forward again, and when she reached the porch she set her knuckles against the warped, grey door and rapped sharply, twice.
An old, old woman, stick-thin and obviously ailing, opened the door. Ellen and the woman gazed at each other in silence.
'Aunt May?'
The old woman's eyes cleared with recognition, and she nodded slightly. 'Ellen, of course!'
But when had her aunt grown so old?
'Come in, dear.' The old woman stretched out a parchment claw. At her back, Ellen felt the wind. The house creaked, and for a moment Ellen thought she felt the porch floor give beneath her feet. She stumbled forward, into the house. The old woman — her aunt, she reminded herself — closed the door behind her.
'Surely you don't live here all alone,' Ellen began. 'If I'd known — if Dad had known — we would have…'
'If I'd needed help I would've asked for it,' Aunt May said with a sharpness that reminded Ellen of her father.
'But this house,' Ellen said. 'It's too much for one person. It looks like it might fall down at any minute, and if something should happen to you here, all alone…'
The old woman laughed, a dry, papery rustle. 'Nonsense. This house will outlast me. And appearances can be deceiving. Look around you — I'm quite cozy here.'
Ellen saw the hall for the first time. A wide, high-ceilinged room with a brass chandelier and a rich oriental carpet. The walls were painted cream, and the grand staircase looked in no danger of collapse.
'It does look a lot better inside,' Ellen said. 'It looked deserted from the road. The taxi driver couldn't believe anyone lived here.'
'The inside is all that matters to me,' said the old woman. 'I have let it all go rather badly. The house is honeycombed with dry rot and eaten by insects, but even so it's in nowhere near as bad shape as I am. It will still be standing when I'm underground, and that's enough for me.'
'But, Aunt May…' Ellen took hold of her aunt's bony shoulders. 'Don't talk like that. You're not dying.'
That laugh again. 'My dear, look at me. I am. I'm long past saving. I'm all eaten up inside. There's barely enough of me left to welcome you here.'
Ellen looked into her aunt's eyes, and what she saw there made her vision blur with tears.
'But doctors…'
'Doctors don't know everything. There comes a time, my dear, for everyone. A time to leave this life for another one. Let's go in and sit down. Would you like some lunch? You must be hungry after that long trip.'
Feeling dazed, Ellen followed her aunt into the kitchen, a narrow room decorated in greens and gold. She sat at the table and stared at the wallpaper, a pattern offish and frying pans.
Her aunt was dying. It was totally unexpected. Her father's older sister — but only eight years older, Ellen remembered. And her father was a vigorously healthy man, a man still in the prime of life. She looked at her aunt, saw her moving with painful slowness from cupboard to counter to shelf, preparing a lunch.
Ellen rose. 'Let me do it, Aunt May.'
'No, no, dear. I know where everything is, you see. You don't. I can still get around all right.'
'Does Dad know about you? When was the last time you saw him?'
'Oh, dear me, I didn't want to burden him with my problems. We haven't been close for years, you know. I suppose I last saw him — why, it was at your wedding, dear.'
Ellen remembered. That had been the last time she had seen Aunt May. She could hardly believe that woman and the one speaking to her now were the same. What had happened to age her so in only three years?
May set a plate on the table before Ellen. A pile of tuna and mayonnaise was surrounded by sesame crackers.
'I don't keep much fresh food on hand,' she said. 'Mostly canned goods. I find it difficult to get out shopping much anymore, but then I haven't much appetite lately, either. So it doesn't much matter what I eat. Would you like some coffee? Or tea?'
'Tea, please. Aunt May, shouldn't you be in a hospital? Where someone would care for you?'
'I can care for myself right here.'
'I'm sure Dad and Mom would love to have you visit…'
May shook her head firmly.
'In a hospital they might be able to find a cure.'
'There's no cure for dying except death, Ellen.'
The kettle began to whistle, and May poured boiling water over a teabag in a cup.
Ellen leaned back in her chair, resting the right side of her head against the wall. She could hear a tiny, persistent crunching sound from within the wall — termites?
'Sugar in your tea?'
'Please,' Ellen responded automatically. She had not touched her food, and felt no desire for anything to eat or drink.
'Oh, dear,' sighed Aunt May. 'I'm afraid you'll just have to drink it plain. It must have been a very long time since I used this — there are more ants here than sugar grains.'
Ellen watched her aunt drop the whole canister into the garbage can.
'Aunt May, is money a problem? I mean, if you're staying here because you can't afford —»
'Bless you, no.' May sat down at the table beside her niece. 'I have some investments and enough money in the bank for my own needs. And this house is my own, too. I bought it when Victor retired, but he didn't stay long enough to help me enjoy it.'
In a sudden rush of sympathy, Ellen leaned over and would have taken her frail aunt in her arms, but May fluttered her hand in a go-away motion, and Ellen drew back.
'With Victor dead, some of the joy went out of fixing it up. Which is why it still looks much the same old wreck it was when I bought it. This property was a real steal, because nobody wanted the house. Nobody but me and Victor.' May cocked her head suddenly and smiled. 'And maybe you? What would you say if I left this house to you when I die?'
'Aunt May, please don't —»
'Nonsense. Who better? Unless you can't stand the sight of it, but I'm telling you the property is worth something at least. If the house is too far gone with bugs and rot you can pull it down and put up something you and Danny like better.'
'It's very generous of you, Aunt May. I just don't like to hear you talk about dying.'
'No? It doesn't bother me. But if it disturbs you, then we'll say no more about it. Shall I show you your room?'
Leading the way slowly up the stairs, leaning heavily on the banister and pausing often in her climb, May explained, 'I don't go upstairs anymore. I moved my bedroom downstairs because the climb was too much trouble.'
The second floor smelled strongly of sea-damp and mold.
'This room has a nice view of the sea,' May said. 'I thought you might like it.' She paused in the doorway, gesturing to Ellen to follow. 'There are clean linens in the hall closet.'
Ellen looked into the room. It was sparely furnished with bed, dressing table and straight-backed chair. The walls were an institutional green and without decoration. The mattress was bare, and there were no curtains at the french doors.
'Don't go out on the balcony — I'm afraid parts of it have quite rotted away,' May cautioned.
'I noticed,' Ellen said.
'Well, some parts go first, you know. I'll leave you alone now, dear. I'm feeling a bit tired myself. Why don't we both just nap until dinner time?'
Ellen looked at her aunt and felt her heart twist with sorrow at the weariness on that pale, wrinkled face. The small exertion of climbing upstairs had told on her. Her arms trembled slightly, and she looked grey with weariness.
