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.A few drinks later, Mia is peering at me across the bar with concern.“Henry?”“Yeah?”“I’m cutting you off.” This is probably a good idea.I try to nod my agreement with Mia, but it’s too much effort.Instead, I slide slowly, almost gracefully, to the floor.I wake up much later at Mercy Hospital.Mia is sitting next to my bed.Her mascara has run all over her face.I’m hooked up to an IV and I feel bad.Very bad.In fact, every kind of bad.I turn my head and retch into a basin.Mia reaches over and wipes my mouth.“Henry—” Mia is whispering.“Hey.What the hell.”“Henry, I’m so sorry—”“Not your fault.What happened?”“You passed out and I did the math—how much do you weigh?”“175.”“Jesus.Did you eat dinner?”I think about it.“Yeah.”“Well, anyway, the stuff you were drinking was about forty proof.And you had two whiskeys.but you seemed perfectly fine and then all of a sudden you looked awful, and then you passed out, and I thought about it and realized you had a lot of booze in you.So I called 911 and here you are.”“Thanks.I think”“Henry, do you have some kind of death wish?” I consider.“Yes.” I turn to the wall, and pretend to sleep.Saturday, April 8, 1989 (Clare is 17, Henry is 40)Clare: I’m sitting in Grandma Meagram’s room, doing the New York Times crossword puzzle with her.It’s a bright cool April morning and I can see red tulips whipping in the wind in the garden.Mama is down there planting something small and white over by the forsythia.Her hat is almost blowing off and she keeps clapping her hand to her head and finally takes the hat off and sets her work basket on it.I haven’t seen Henry in almost two months; the next date on the List is three weeks away.We are approaching the time when I won’t see him for more than two years.I used to be so casual about Henry, when I was little; seeing Henry wasn’t anything too unusual.But now every time he’s here is one less time he’s going to be here.And things are different with us.I want something.I want Henry to say something, do something that proves this hasn’t all been some kind of elaborate joke.I want.That’s all.I am wanting.Grandma Meagram is sitting in her blue wing chair by the window.I sit in the window seat, with the newspaper in my lap.We are about halfway through the crossword.My attention has drifted.“Read that one again, child,” says Grandma.“Twenty down.‘Monkish monkey.’ Eight letters, second letter ‘a’, last letter ‘n’.”“ Capuchin.” She smiles, her unseeing eyes turn in my direction.To Grandma I am a dark shadow against a somewhat lighter background.“That’s pretty good, eh?”“Yeah, that’s great.Geez, try this one: nineteen across, ‘Don’t stick your elbow out so far.Ten letters, second letter ’u‘.”“ Burma Shave.Before your time.”“Arrgh.I’ll never get this.” I stand up and stretch.I desperately need to go for a walk.My grandmother’s room is comforting but claustrophobic.The ceiling is low, the wallpaper is dainty blue flowers, the bedspread is blue chintz, the carpet is white, and it smells of powder and dentures and old skin.Grandma Meagram sits trim and straight.Her hair is beautiful, white but still slightly tinged with the red I have inherited from her, and perfectly coiled and pinned into a chignon.Grandma’s eyes are like blue clouds.She has been blind for nine years, and she has adapted well; as long as she is in the house she can get around.She’s been trying to teach me the art of crossword solving, but I have trouble caring enough to see one through by myself.Grandma used to do them in ink.Henry loves crossword puzzles.“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it,” says Grandma, leaning back in her chair and rubbing her knuckles.I nod, and then say, “Yes, but it’s kind of windy.Mama’s down there gardening, and everything keeps blowing away on her.”“How typical of Lucille,” says her mother.“Do you know, child, I’d like to go for a walk.”“I was just thinking that same thing,” I say.She smiles, and holds out her hands, and I gently pull her out of her chair.I fetch our coats, and tie a scarf around Grandma’s hair to stop it from getting messed up by the wind.Then we make our way slowly down the stairs and out the front door.We stand on the drive, and I turn to Grandma and say, “Where do you want to go?”“Let’s go to the Orchard,” she says.“That’s pretty far.Oh, Mama’s waving; wave back.” We wave at Mama, who is all the way down by the fountain now.Peter, our gardener, is with her.He has stopped talking to her and is looking at us, waiting for us to go on so he and Mama can finish the argument they are having, probably about daffodils, or peonies.Peter loves to argue with Mama, but she always gets her way in the end.“It’s almost a mile to the Orchard, Grandma.”“Well, Clare, there’s nothing wrong with my legs.”“Okay, then, we’ll go to the Orchard.” I take her arm, and away we go.When we get to the edge of the Meadow I say, “Shade or sun?” and she answers, “Oh, sun, to be sure,” and so we take the path that cuts through the middle of the Meadow, that leads to the clearing.As we walk, I describe.“We’re passing the bonfire pile.There’s a bunch of birds in it—oh, there they go!”“Crows.Starlings.Doves, too,” she says.“Yes.we’re at the gate, now.Watch out, the path is a little muddy.I can see dog tracks, a pretty big dog, maybe Joey from Allinghams‘.Everything is greening up pretty good.Here is that wild rose.”“How high is the Meadow?” asks Grandma.“Only about a foot.It’s a real pale green.Here are the little oaks.”She turns her face toward me, smiling.“Let’s go and say hello.” I lead her to the oaks that grow just a few feet from the path.My grandfather planted these three oak trees in the forties as a memorial to my Great Uncle Teddy, Grandma’s brother who was killed in the Second World War.The oak trees still aren’t very big, only about fifteen feet tall.Grandma puts her hand on the trunk of the middle one and says, “Hello.” I don’t know if she’s addressing the tree or her brother.We walk on.As we walk over the rise I see the Meadow laid out before us, and Henry is standing in the clearing.I halt.“What is it?” Grandma asks.“Nothing,” I tell her.I lead her along the path.“What do you see?” she asks me.“There’s a hawk circling over the woods,” I say.“What time is it?”I look at my watch.“Almost noon.”We enter the clearing.Henry stands very still.He smiles at me.He looks tired.His hair is graying.He is wearing his black overcoat, he stands out dark against the bright Meadow.“Where is the rock?” Grandma says.“I want to sit down ” I guide her to the rock, help her to sit.She turns her face in Henry’s direction and stiffens.“Who’s there?” she asks me, urgency in her voice.“No one ” I lie.“There’s a man, there,” she says, nodding toward Henry.He looks at me with an expression that seems to mean Go ahead.Tell her.A dog is barking in the woods.I hesitate.“Clare,” Grandma says.She sounds scared.“Introduce us,” Henry says, quietly.Grandma is still, waiting.I put my arm around her shoulders.“It’s okay, Grandma,” I say.“This is my friend Henry [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]