Her life was making its usual sounds: the tick, tick, tick of the knitting needles, the voluntary creak of floor boards, her granddaughter’s breathing and the brush of her clothes, grunts and joint crackings from Nelson, her own breathing and the beat of her heart that was half sound and half sensation. She could not help thinking herself, because of the darkness behind her eyelids, the black center of all these noises, the body where, regardless of the opening of mouth or eyes, no light penetrated. She could not help thinking her body a room without doors or windows, a hollow, her eyes and ears and nerve endings adrift on the surface, and her mind the most outside of all, filled with external glare, bulbous and doughy, the least capable instrument for probing such an interior vacuity.

  “I’m so depressed,” said Christine.

  “I better call the doctor,” said Anna.

  “And what is your name?” said Clayton, his voice impersonal and harried, yet reminding her of the midnight caller. “Ma’am?”

  “Anna Robison. Mrs. Ike Robison.” Ineluctably, they took each other over. Now she would never hear Clayton without thinking of him, George.

  “Ah, yes. Coronary thrombosis, eleven-seventy, history of arteriosclerosis? Yes?” He spoke untrustworthily.

  Anna cleared her throat.

  “Mrs. Robison?”

  “Ike feels funny. He seems weaker.”

  “Have you taken his pulse?”

  “It’s about as regular as usual.”

  “Any edema of hands or feet?”

  “A little swelling in his hands, not much.”

  “Patient taking all medications?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any other symptoms? Irregular breathing, pain, undue worry on the part of the patient?”

  “He seems as hopeful as usual.”

  “Well, Mrs. Robison, I—”

  “Could you come over?”

  “I’m very busy, we have office hours today until—”

  “I know, but after that? Just for a look?”

  “An ambulance could pick—”

  “That would scare him to death, doctor, literally.”

  “Mrs. Robison, I—”

  “When is Dr. Jauss supposed to get back?”

  “Possibly late Sunday night.”

  “And today is Thursday?”

  “Mrs. Robison, I—”

  “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”

  “No, I am—”

  “Think of him as your own father.”

  “I’m sorry, I—” but then he paused of his own accord, and took what sounded like a puff from a cigarette. “What’s the address?”

  “Eighteen sixty-five East Walnut.”

  “I’ll try to come between three-thirty and four.”

  “Thank you.”

  Christine was right behind her. “What did he say? Is he going to come? You know, Grandmother, this friend of Todd’s was in medical school, and the very first day they had a meeting of all the freshmen, and two or three of the deans stood up and welcomed them, and you know what? They didn’t mention one thing about helping people or easing pain, all they told these kids was that they were the new high priests of society, their average annual income would be four times the norm, doctors were in demand everywhere, they could write their own tickets.” She marched into the kitchen, gesticulating emphatically. “As a rule, you know, they are such evil and hateful people, not even human, really. You know why there aren’t more medical schools? Because the AMA won’t allow them!”

  “He’s coming around four.”

  “I’ll bet! He didn’t call you back, did he? Even though you’ve been leaving messages since six o’clock this morning?”

  Anna thought of baking bread, imagined the springy, yeasty dough alive beneath her hands, warm with milk and melted butter, honeycombed with gluten. She could roll it out and sprinkle on cinnamon sugar and raisins.

  “They love having you in their power. They never tell you anything about yourself, or how you can prevent stuff from happening to you, they just expect you to go in and nod and take your pills and say yessir yessir, and then they complain about how stupid patients are, especially women patients. You’d think because you’re paying them, they’d be working for you, but it doesn’t work out that way. You’re just paying for abuse and ignorance.”

  “Chrissy—”

  “It’s true!” Christine turned abruptly and walked out the back door. Anna could see that she was crying again. It would be too late to make bread for lunch. She opened the refrigerator. No yeast, anyway. Christine threw open the back door with a crash, shouting, “They’re devils! They profit from our pain! And then they have only contempt and hatred for us! They’re evil, horrible, disgusting—”

  “Chrissy, they’re only human.”

  “Tell them that!”

  Her face was so contorted with anger that Anna was tempted to walk over and smack it. Instead she spoke quietly. “Dr. Jauss has been very good to both your grandfather and me. He’s given your grandfather good care—”

  “How do you know? How do you know that surgery he had last summer was even necessary? Did you get a second opinion from someone who didn’t know Jauss, wasn’t his friend?”

  “Stop shouting!”

  “Well, did you?”

  Anna thought of Jauss’s pleasant, rather roundish freckled countenance, of the way he pulled his chair up to yours and spoke in a deeper, richer, more kindly voice when he had to tell you anything important, of the way his solid body and short firm fingers seemed competent and human at the same time, and she turned on Christine and put her hand roughly over Christine’s open mouth. She said, “Don’t speak again. Just don’t.”

  Christine sniffled and shuddered deeply. She shook her head, and after a moment, a moment of relieving silence, Anna said, “I could make popovers for lunch. How would you like that? I have some lovely quince jelly my cousin Jean Fountain sent for Christmas.”

  Tears were streaming down Christine’s face. Anna was afraid to look directly at her. Christine said, “If Grandfather dies, then that’ll be the end. There won’t be any men left.”

  Anna’s fingers touched the jam keg, sensed its barrel shape, and pushed it to one side. It was easier to stand on her toes peering into the back of the cabinet than to look at Christine. “There’s Todd, honey, and the twins.”

  “I’m leaving Todd! I’m leaving Todd! And anyway, he’s not a man, like Grandfather; he doesn’t have any history; he’s just a nice guy!”

  “Oh, Chrissy!” Anna reluctantly grasped the jelly and stood back on her heels, resigned to confronting this anger and grief, but just then the room was full of her daughters, all of them talking, carrying packages, discarding coats, stumbling over Nelson. Christine closed her mouth and banged out the back door again. Anna’s daughters made the room smell damp and cool. Their faces, momentarily victorious with shopping, carried the dew of early spring, and looked too young for their three lives, as if the men had never come along, and the most important things in the world were still impressing each other and arguing.

  Unpacking a grocery bag, Susanna gave her a sidelong sheepish look. Anna smiled, Susanna smiled. “I bought ham,” said Claire. Helen flourished her package with a superior chuckle. “I bought prosciutto,” she declared.

  Cupboards gaped all over the kitchen. “Slice it thinner than that, Claire,” admonished Helen. “No more than an eighth of an inch. Here’s the remoulade.”

  “Mother, I can’t find any oil, is there any oil?”

  “Nelson, get out of the way! Where’s Christine?”

  “You can put mustard on some of that if you want, Claire, but just the remoulade is the way it’s supposed to be.”

  “Mother, I saw Biddy Lane at DiSalvatore’s. She broke her arm falling off a unicycle.”

  “Biddy Lane? Susanna, our Biddy Lane?”

  “Claire, those toasts are burning.”

  “Do you have any garlic, Mother? Cloves, not powder.”

  “Is that Daddy?”

  “Nelson! Go into the living room, for heaven’s sake!”

  “Where is Christine?”

  “Sit down, Mother.”

  “Daddy doesn’t want to come down, but he’d like some kind of sandwich.”

  “Grandmother, can we eat these spiced apples in this jar?”

  “Sit down, Mother.”

  “Now lay one slice of the cucumber, one piece of prosciutto, a round of onion, then a dab of the sauce. Okay. Now sprinkle on the bread crumbs and run it under the broiler.”

  “Helen, turn on the fan.”

  “Shall we use these placemats?”

  “Grandfather says this isn’t a sandwich, and he’d like two slices of the usual bread wrapped around something he recognizes.”

  “Wash some spoons, Christine.”

  “Nelson can eat that.”

  “Helen, close the freezer door.”

  “That lettuce isn’t dry enough. The dressing won’t coat it properly if it isn’t dry enough.”

  “Is this towel clean?”

  “Too much salt.”

  “Sit down, Mother.”

  “Grandfather wants to know if there are any canned pears. He would like to fling a lip over some canned pears.”

  “I’m making the tea!”

  “I think the sun’s coming out.”

  “I showed a lovely house today. Do you remember the Davieses, Helen?”

  “Christine, call this hound!”

  “I put them on already, Mother.”

  “We should wash the windows for spring, Grandmother. We should all get together and wash your windows.”

  “I like it with the crusts cut off, then the edges buttered and rolled in chopped parsley. The bread has to be really top-notch, though.”

  “Mr. Scoppino had beautiful standing rib roasts today. Made me actually want to have a dinner party.”

  “Are those ready, Claire?”

  “Is Daddy taken care of?”

  “Are we ready?”

  “Are we ready?”

  “Chrissy, I think we’re ready!”

  “Sit down, Mother.”

  Anna sat down. This every one of them was good at, thanks perhaps to her. Perhaps not. Even Christine could dress a salad, splendidly, casually, in passing, a little of this a dash of that while thinking about dessert. Claire sharpened her knives with a manly flourish, unafraid of them, and Helen’s julienned vegetables fell onto the plates in patterns of fans and daisies. The hot was hot and the cold was cold. Susanna’s lemon souffle was in the oven, certain to balloon, and Anna’s own tiny ginger wafers waited to garnish it. As they pulled out their chairs expectantly and looked at one another with greater than usual tolerance, she could see that this was their own feast, made by their own hands for their own eyes, noses, and tongues, and that, in spite of disease and antagonism, divorce, birth, and worry, right now this was enough, the green-and-white trellised placemats, the russet table, the ivory plates and cups with their raised garland design. Radishes and emerald-edged cucumber rounds, beds of lettuce, crisp melba toast, bowls of soup and hard-boiled eggs, pale butter, a cruet of dressing, a pitcher of milk, and a wedge of bleu cheese on the maple cheese board promised for the moment never to give out, to taste in every bite as they tasted in the first, hungriest bite.

  “Mother,” said Christine, “you have on your food stare.”

  “What’s that?” Helen reached for the pepper.

  “It’s your instinctual gaze at your prey. You know how when you’re in a restaurant and the waiter goes by with food for another table, conversation always stops, and the people at your table always follow his tray with their eyes?”

  “Like a cat staring at a mouse?” said Susanna.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Oh, Chrissy.”

  “She’s right, Helen. I saw you looking at that sandwich. You were absolutely lethal.” Even Helen smiled at Claire’s joke and didn’t protest. There was a general passing of condiments and opening of mouths. Helen was complimented on the sandwiches. She demurred, saying that Claire had put them together, and adding that the touch of mustard was actually quite tasty. Christine loved Susanna’s soup and asked for more. There was plenty more. Susanna said that the tea was still good and hot. Claire disappeared and returned to say that Ike wanted to know what they were talking about. She took him some soup. Christine was asked not to slurp her soup, and she smiled to show that she had only slurped it in order that one of her lifelong caretakers would remind her of her manners for old times’ sake. Nelson stood up and pushed his nose into Helen’s napkined lap. He was ordered to lie down. He did so, sniffing. Claire poured herself a glass of milk. Anna took a second sandwich. Christine disappeared and returned, carrying Ike’s soup bowl and relating that the noise of jaws and teeth was so loud on the second floor, according to Ike, that he couldn’t concentrate on his book. “Oh, Daddy,” muttered Helen, as if he were at the table. Susanna removed the yolk from her egg, mashed it on her plate with a little of the remoulade sauce, then ate it and licked her fork. “Did you make this sauce, Helen, or buy it?” she asked.

  Anna felt her headache and her spirits flutter and lift. In the middle afternoon, which was sooner than the late afternoon, sooner than you knew, really, the doctor would arrive, bringing all his training and reassurance. Before dinner, Claire would take her to the market, where she would linger among the array and plan a dinner for Chrissy, something special that she would love, and more interesting meals for Ike, with a lot of fruit. This day, she thought, would surely deflate to normal size and as quickly give way to the future as all the other days of the recent past. Its length would turn out to be spurious, a product merely of point of view. Anna smiled and held up the spiced apples. “Are you still interested in these?”

  “Oh, yes!” exclaimed Christine, her mouth full, taking the dish from Anna’s hand.

  “That was very good, I thought,” said Helen.

  “Don’t forget the souffle. What do you think, Susanna?”

  “Soon, soon. We have to wait for the perfect moment.”

  “Mmmm,” said Christine.

  “Remember those strudels Aunt Dolores made all that one spring, Claire? Apple, cherry, poppyseed, one right after the other. I can’t believe we got tired of them.”

  “Aunt Dolores was such a one for taking a notion to do something and then running it into the ground.”

  “Some of her notions were great while they lasted, but remember the blood sausage? She thought sure that if she just persevered, we’d be sure to get to like it.”

  “Dolores loved all that stuff that Mama used to make.”

  “Chrissy, your grandfather finally wouldn’t even come to the table if one of those sausages was there.”

  “The strudels were great, though.”

  “I never had the patience for rolling out that dough, that’s for sure.”

  “I’ll split it with you.”

  Anna leaned back with a satisfied sigh.

  “I think it’s ready now,” said Susanna, and in a moment brought it to the table, steaming lemon steam, golden with just the finest crispness, and already sinking in the middle. Chairs scraped with anticipation, and Christine set clean plates and forks on the table. Claire disappeared and came back. “Daddy respectfully inquires whether there’s a morsel of ice cream to be had in the establishment.”

  “Take him a little of this.”

  “He wants to know if he’s missed any arguments, political discussions, or gossip about himself.”

  “I hate to go back to work this afternoon, but I have to get started on my taxes.”

  “Don’t mention that, please!”

  “He seems better.”

  “I think he is, Mother, I really think he is.”

  “I think that anything that happens in the middle of the night worries you more than if the same thing happened during the day?

  “Oh, I’m sure that’s true, Mother. But really, if you’re ever worried, even the slightest bit, you should call one of us.”

  “Mother—” But even as the word nurse rose into the eyes of everyone at the table, and Anna again wondered why she hadn’t just let Mrs. Cox look at Ike one time, Claire closed her mouth. The souffle was not entirely eaten and there were still cookies on the plate. “Coffee?” suggested Helen.

  PART

  Four

  They were still at the table when Anna came down from helping Ike to the bathroom. She could see by Christine’s lowered, sullen gaze that the subject of Todd had been broached. Helen’s hand was in her purse, absently seeking a cigarette as always after meals or in moments of strain. Claire was clearing dishes off the table, and Susanna was pretending to look for something in her shoe, shaking it and reaching inside it, peering and obviously performing. Everyone was trying to think of something to say. Anna said, “Someone could go up and sit with Daddy.”

  “I will, Grandmother.” But Helen’s gaze, and then Claire’s, pinned Christine in her seat. There was no more food Anna could offer to bring back the sense of simple celebration, and now that everyone was fortified, every point of view seemed that much clearer, clamored that much more for presentation.

  “Well, I can’t find anything,” said Susanna. “It must be a knot in a thread or something. Chrissy, I didn’t mean to silence the conversation. I just don’t think you know what you’re throwing away.”

  “I think I do.” Feeling Claire’s presence, Christine was careful to sound courteous.

  “It’s your decision, of course—”

  “Does your aunt Susanna know you’re pregnant, Christine?” Claire spoke casually, pretending not to be dramatic. Helen took her hand out of her purse and shifted in her chair, having wanted a cigarette for so many years that she didn’t even know she wanted it any longer.

  “Since I haven’t told anyone,” replied Christine in a light voice, “I’m surprised anyone knows.” She smiled too broadly. Nelson, whose eyes had been on her face, stood up wagging his tail. “Lie down!” Her whisper was furious.