was as though she were looking through a magnifying glass. His beard was like black wheat stubble on a dry field. His skin was pale, and while from a distance he looked younger than she knew him to be, up close she could see the thousands of tiny lines across his skin. She could see the future of her own face, and she could see something else in him as his muscles went slack and his skin sagged away from his strong big bones. She could see the effort it cost him to keep his face composed, hopeful, and she could see the sadness that lay beneath the steely composure, the lack of life in him.
Her tiny fingers worked swiftly, following Mrs. Larsen’s hands along the length of the cut, and finally she was done. Not too bad.
He opened his eyes.
“All done.” She smiled at him, her hands still on his face, his head in her lap.
“Thank you.”
“We have to get you to bed. Could you… it would be better if you tried to stay awake for a while. Your head may be hurt. As long as you can.” She shyly reached to touch his face, but Larsen appeared, stamping, to interrupt her.
“We’ll take him from here, Miss. I’ll get him upstairs. Walk with him. There’s no need for you, and Mrs. has your dinner. I’ll take him.”
Larsen reached under and pulled Ralph to his feet. Ralph swayed, but held upright, and Catherine sat as she watched the two of them clumping upstairs, Mrs. Larsen following with useless flutter.
Then they were gone, and for the first time, Catherine looked at the room in which she sat, and was startled by it. It was nice, not at all what she had imagined: very plain, very clean, and spotless. It was an ordinary square room, and yet here and there sat pieces of furniture that seemed strangely incongruous, as though they had come from some other house in some other place. Bright color. Rich fabrics. Graceful and finely made furniture, only a few pieces, standing alongside the more mundane farm things, the china press, the plain pine grandfather clock.
The sofa she sat on was one of these odd pieces, all gilded arms and carved swans and sunset colored damask, now stained with Truitt’s blood. From her view, it looked like the kind of room where nobody would know where to sit, the kind of place maintained in perfect order, even though it was never used.
There was one chair, plain, strong oak, which was clearly where Truitt sat in the evenings, smoking a cigar, an ashtray and humidor on the low plain table next to it, the table covered also with farm journals and almanacs and ledgers. Next to it, a lamp that glowed with brilliant colors from a stained-glass shade, crimsons and purples, grapes and autumn leaves and delicate birds in flight. It was the kind of lamp she’d seen only in hotels. She had never imagined an ordinary person would own one, but Ralph Truitt did.
He must be very rich, she thought. The thought warmed her, and brought a smile to her face. He’s not going to die. Now it’s beginning. Her heart raced as though she were about to steal a pair of kid gloves from a shop.
She could hear the heavy sounds of the three moving upstairs, one boot falling on the floor, then another. Ah, they were undressing him, she realized. She had thought she had been shut out because they had not wanted her to see his weakness, but it was, in fact, his body they were denying her.
The clock ticked steadily. The wind howled without peace. Catherine sat alone, wondering if anybody on the face of the earth knew where she was, could picture how she sat, her hands quietly in her lap, her fingers touched with blood, her torn hem, her lost jewels.
She wanted a cigarette. A cigarette in her little silver holder. And a glass of whiskey, one glass to take away the chill. But that was another life in another place, and here, in Ralph Truitt’s house, Catherine simply sat, her hands in her lap.
Here they were, four people, each one moving separately through the rooms of the same house. She had held his head in her lap and her clothes were wet with his blood, yet she was alone. Alone as she had always been.
Sometimes she sat and let her mind go blank and her eyes go out of focus, so that she watched the slow jerky movements of the motes that floated across her pupils. They had amazed her, as a child. Now she saw them as a reflection of how she moved, floating listlessly through the world, occasionally bumping into another body without acknowledgment, and then floating on, free and alone.
She knew no other way to be. Her schemes, she saw now, were listless fantasies, poorly imagined, languidly acted, and so doomed to failure, again and again.
She rose to her feet and wandered through the rooms of Truitt’s house. There were not many of them, and they were all alike, equally immaculate, furnished with the same odd blend of the rustic and the magnificent. The dining room was tiny, but the table was elaborately set for dinner for two. She picked an ornate fork from the table; it was almost as long as her forearm and astonishing in its weight. The brilliant polish caught the light as she turned it over to read the maker: Tiffany amp; Co., New York City. She felt she had never seen anything so beautiful in her life.
“Larsen’s with him.” Catherine dropped the fork as Mrs. Larsen came into the room. “I’ve made supper. It’s maybe not spoilt too bad, and you might as well eat.” She adjusted the fork Catherine had dropped, so that it was in perfect alignment with the other, equally massive utensils.
“I was just…”
“Looking. I saw. Sit. It’ll just be a minute. You must be starved.”
Catherine sat at the table. She felt she was about to cry, for no reason except that it was a long way back and she was alone. She tried to fix her hair, then let it go.
The soup was clear and hot, the lamb cooked in a sauce that was both delicious and exotic, all of it accomplished and fine in a way that would have been admired in any restaurant in any city she had ever been to, and Mrs. Larsen served it with a simplicity and finesse that surprised and pleased her. She had thought she wasn’t hungry, but she ate everything, including a dessert made of light meringues floating in glistening, silky custard.
The beautiful plates came and went, the utensils were used until none were left, and finally, Mrs. Larsen stood in the kitchen doorway and they both listened to the clumping of Larsen’s boots as Truitt and Larsen walked back and forth, back and forth in an upstairs bedroom, first across a rug and then on the floor and then back to the rug.
“That was a fine dinner.”
“Well, I’d hoped for more of a celebration, but…”
The footsteps continued.
“But there’ll be other nights, I guess. Miss?”
“Yes?”
“I hope you’ll be happy here. I truly do. It wasn’t much of a welcome, but I do, we do, welcome you.”
Catherine blushed, embarrassed. “You’re a wonderful cook.”
“Some people have one gift, some another.” She made rough sewing gestures with her hands. “Me, I was always a mess with a needle. But put me in a kitchen, I know where I am. Even after a long while, and it’s been a while, I know what to do.”
Catherine stood, and they stared awkwardly at each other. Catherine was suddenly exhausted. She looked at the ceiling, the clodding boots.
“Will they be all right?”
“Larsen’ll look after him. They’ve known each other since they were boys. Truitt’s safe enough.”
Mrs. Larsen began to clear away the dishes.
“I’ll help you. I’m used to keeping myself.”
“You should rest. Go to bed if you want.”
“Where do I…”
“Sleep? I’ll show you.” Wiping her hands on a dishtowel, then licking her fingers to put out the sputtering candles, extinguishing the sparkle on the silver, she led Catherine out of the dining room, picked up her case and started up the stairs. “It’s a nice room. You can see the river, and you can see over to the little house where Larsen and I live.”
She opened the door to a graceful bedroom, the simple bed laid with good linens, the tester of the delicate four-poster hung with lace.
She put the suitcase on the bed, went to the dressing table and poured water from a pitcher into a porcelain bowl. She went to the bathroom and brought back a beautiful cut crystal glass of cold water, which she set neatly by the bed.
“The facilities is down the hall. Indoors. First in the county. I’ve tried to make it nice. I know you come from
