Tag: short-story

Published in Barkeater: The Adirondack Review, Summer 1998

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            Fran had put on her rayon blouse with the scoop neck and aqua polyester pants because her in-laws were coming to visit.  She’d never met people quite like the Krulls, and doubted she ever would again.  She was propped up on Walter’s very first project, which was a wood couch.  There was a romance novel from the library on her lap.  Beside her, Walter rocked on his favorite chair, back and forth, back and forth.  Every room of the decrepit farmhouse had a rocking chair, though not much other furniture.  Fran shifted her legs—one of the couch’s boards was not aligned quite right—and her romance novel fell to the floor.

            Still rocking, Walter glanced at Fran.  The looser floorboards groaned. Walter had light blonde hair to his shoulders and a beard that was reddish and pointed, like a leprechaun’s.  When Walter got excited about a project (he was involved in several projects) his gray eyes became animated and he seemed to leap all over the farmhouse, and that made Fran, at least momentarily, forget the illness that incapacitated her two years ago.

            Their Adirondack farmhouse had been a real steal, although Walter’s mother, Mrs. Krull, who helped them find it, hadn’t recommended it.  She told them it was isolated and cheap: way too cheap.  But Walter insisted, and Fran: she never argued with Walter.

            “When are your parents coming?” Fran said.  She shivered and pulled her pink comforter up around her thin shoulders.

            “Who knows?” Walter said.  He looked at Fran, and rocked a little faster.  He was a little frightened, she knew; her dark eyes and the purple hollows beneath them, which made up most of her face, sometimes frightened even her.  She didn’t look in mirrors anymore.

            “You know what they say, Fran,” Walter said whimsically, looking out the bay window at their pines and the cherrywood trees.  “They’re unencumbered.”  Walter laughed, and Fran laughed.  Then Walter rocked, and Fran, too exhausted to do anything else, stared out the window at the trees and tried not to think about her nightmares.  They started with her falling into something black.  The latest one had a damp, musty smell to it, and she didn’t enjoy it; no, not at all.

*   *   *   *   *   *  *

            A few minutes later they heard pounding footsteps and knuckle rapping at the door.  “Hello-oo!  Anybody home?  Here we are!  Hello-oo!”

            “Stay just where you are,” Walter told Fran, but before he could reach the door it flung open and Mrs. Krull appeared, her solid body poised for action.  She was a plump woman, shaped like a gumdrop.  Mrs. Krull’s inquisitive eyes darted past Walter to Fran, and then sliding her heavy pot of food onto the kitchen cupboard, she advanced with determination toward the couch.

            ‘Fran,” she said, her freckled hands reaching out.  “How are you?”

            “Okay,” Fran said, her voice high and slightly irritable.  In Mrs. Krull’s eyes she saw shock and disbelief and thus Fran made a valiant attempt to raise herself, but the blood rushed from her head and she felt faint.  The very next second, however, Walter was beside her, taking her elbow.  He had her sitting up.

            Fran heard shuffling in the kitchen.  Glancing behind the couch, Fran saw Mr. Krull in his red lumberjack coat.  His shoulders were slightly hunched and his expression, as usual, was impassive.  In one arm he carried a full grocery bag, in the other, a stack of newspapers.

            “How do you like the couch, Mom?  Dad?” Walter said.

            Mrs. Krull took two steps back from the couch.  She frowned.  “It’s very. . .”

            “Rustic,” Mr. Krull said, from the kitchen.  He set down his items and walked pensively into the front room.  “You built it yourself?”  He pushed his glasses up on his nose and bent down to examine the couch.  Light-weight wood.

            Fran felt the couch shake and she heard him sniffing.

            “Pine.”  Mr. Krull sniffed again.  “But pine doesn’t smell like that.  What’s that smell?  Something smells funny.”  He sniffer more, peering around the room.

            “George,” Mrs. Krull said, flinging out her hands.  “See what happens when you marry a farmer?”

            “I haven’t farmed in forty years.”

            “Once a farmer, always a farmer.”

            “It’s like a coffin,” Mr. Krull said.

            “Don’t be so morbid.”  Mrs. Krull slapped Mr. Krull sharply on his back.  She gave him a look, and then said to Fran: “Is that comfortable?  You don’t have any cushions.”

            “It’s just a tiny, tiny bit hard,” Fran said.  But her in-laws gave her such an odd look that Fran tried to smile.  “I’m going to make cushions, but I haven’t been out to buy the material.”

            “Reading another romance, I see,” Mr. Krull said.  He picked up Fran’s book from the floor and handed it to her and she thanked him.

            “She read them all the time, Dad,” Walter said.

            “I enjoy them,” Fran said.  “These days the heroines are strong.  Most people don’t buy the passive woman myth anymore.”  She held up her book.  On the cover was a clever-looking woman in a tight emerald green suit; her air, a mass of brilliant auburn waves, seemed to propel her forward into some unspecified adventures.  “These women are liberated.”

            “I’ve always been liberated,” Mrs. Krull cried out.  She put her hands on her wide hips and laughed.

            “You have to be careful,” Mrs. Krull said quietly to Fran, so quietly she thought at first he was talking to himself.  “You don’t want to confuse reality with fantasy.”

            “Oh, I never do that,” Fran said, blinking rapidly.  “I know the difference.”

            “Dad,” Walter said, “let me tell you, we’re not going to live here the rest of our lives.”

            “Praise the Lord,” Mrs. Krull said with a laugh.  Then, regarding Walter closely, she said, “You’re T-shirt’s getting a little tight.”

            “Must be those delicious dinners Fran’s cooking.”  Walter rubbed his protruding stomach and winked at Fran.

            Fran winked back.  Fran was still adjusting to Mrs. Krull, whom she’d inherited three years ago when she married Walter.  Mrs. Krull sold real estate.  After finalizing a deal, she’d show up in her gaudy makeup and neon-flowered pantsuit, her brown hair in short tight curlets, and offer to take Fran and Walter out to dinner, which Walter always accepted.  She’d return with them and lounge around like she owned the farmhouse and tell them they needed a new stove, or a dishwasher, or curtains instead of towels on the windows.  What really annoyed Fran, however, was when Mrs. Krull joked about Walter being cheap.  She didn’t understand, Fran believed, the subtleties of frugality.

            Walter was explaining how it was more efficient for him to cut down the trees for the cabin and plane the wood himself.  “Bypassing the middlemen will save us at least fifty percent.  Then we’ll sell the by-products.”

            “By-products?” Mr., Krull said skeptically.

            “The chips.  The sawdust.  Farmers feed it to the pigs.”  Walter pulled out his calculator from a pocket Fran had sewn onto his T-shirt, and he started pushing buttons.  He stopped suddenly to smile out at the trees, then he fingered his beard, and pushed more buttons.

            Fran smiled at Walter, and waited for him to smile back, but he seemed to be busy.

            “I’m relieved you’re finally getting some furniture instead of sitting on that rusted outdoor set,” Mrs. Krull said.  “Is it outside?”  Mrs. Krull stuck her neck around the corner in the direction of the back porch. 

            “In the spare bedroom,” Walter said, without looking up.  He was still involved in a calculation.

            “Did Walter tell you how we put an egg in the microwave, and it exploded?” Fran said quickly, hoping to divert Mrs. Krull.  Walter had been frequenting junk yards again, and he’d been storing his objects d’art in the spare bedroom.

            “And he’s supposed to be a scientist!” Mrs. Krull laughed and clapped her hands once, powerfully, and her entire body jiggled.  “I need to bring over the microwave’s instruction booklet so you don’t kill yourselves.”

            “We won’t do that,” Fran said quickly.

            Fran really didn’t feel well.

            Fran needed to rest.

            Then Fran watched Walter slowly turn his head and look at his mother.  The two pairs of eyes were the exact pale gray color, and at that moment, Fran thought them indistinguishable.  Walter returned his calculator to his pocket.

            “We planted five hundred baby cherrywood trees,” Walter said, his voice high and excited.  He started pointing outside.  “See?  See?”

Everyone looked out the bay window to the forest of pines and cherrywood and the rainbow-shaped pond that Walter bathed in when it wasn’t ice-covered.  There was a thunderclap in the distance, then it began drizzling.

“Our cabin will be surrounded by trees,” Walter said.  “You know what they say about simple pleasures?”

“Simple pleasures are the best,” Fran said.  When they sang together (they used to sing a song called “Partners” to the melody of “Sisters”), Fran knew she loved Walter more than she ever loved anyone or would ever love anyone.  At the same time, Fran had been a persnickety librarian with thick glasses, lager jutting bones and a perpetual frown, the latter because she was always on the lookout for potential book thieves.  Whenever Walter appeared at the Mentonville Library, the senior librarian, and older and distinguished man, would take Fran aside and shaking his head, he’d whisper: “That Walter Krull, he’s very strange.  An interesting person, but very strange.”  Fran’s parents, both high school teachers who read voraciously, and still lived in Iowa, told Fran: “He’s a visionary, yes.  A genius.  But geniuses—they often have these quirks.  They to extremes.  Sometimes they have these God complexes.  You have to know when to stop them.”  But Walter had brought to fruition the playful side of Fran’s personality (she hadn’t even realized she’d had one), and for that, Fran was more than grateful: she felt forever indebted to Walter.

In twenty years we’ll harvest the trees,” Walter said. “And Joe McGurdy and I already poured the cabin’s foundation.”

“You didn’t hire a professional?” Mr. Krull said.

“Dad, you always told me: ‘If you want something done right, do it yourself.’” He tugged at his father’s arm.

Fran saw Mr. Krull glance at his wife and shake his head.

“You have enough money to hire a professional,” Mr. Krull said.  “The Survey pays a damn good salary—especially after fifteen years.  What are you going to do with all your money?”

“Save it for a rainy day,” Walter said.

“It’s raining now!” Mrs. Krull cried exuberantly.

“Drizzling, Mom,” Walter said.

“Don’t you think you’re being a little extreme?” Mr. Krull said.

Fran looked up.

“Extreme?  Come on!”  Walter laughed.  It was one of those laughs that went to the core of Fran’s being, a laugh that implored: ‘Trust me. Believe me. I know what I’m doing.’ Walter looked at Fran, and Fran laughed, then Mrs. Krull laughed. Well, Fran thought, if everything seemed okay to them, then everything must be okay.

“Dad, Mom, listen: we’re getting out of the rat race.  You know?  Rampant consumerism?  Three-hour commutes?  Isn’t that crazy?”

“There are lots of people,” Mr. Krull spoke carefully,”who do crazy things, and who don’t understand the consequences.”

“George,” Mrs. Krull said.

“It’s like Thoreau’s Walden here, except that we call it Walt’s and Fran’s.”  Then Walter went to the couch and put his arm around Fran’s thin shoulders.  She’d been feeling cold; the closeness of Walter made her warm again.

“Walt’s and Fran’s,” Mrs. Krull said.

“Walter’s Fran,” Mr. Krull said absentmindedly.  He was sitting on an unpadded rocking chair reading the dog-eared paperback that he usually carried with him.

“Not quite as poetic as Thoreau’s Walden,” Fran said.  She had a theory that what people read gave clues to who they wanted to be.  Mr. Krull read his paperback: Jokes and Their Relation to the Subconscious and Mrs. Krull read the stock market pages and religious propaganda.  Fran read romances, and Walter, since starting his woodworking projects, he hadn’t been reading much of anything.

“It’s functional,” Walter said.  “The name, I mean.”

“We’re not dense,” Mrs. Krull said.  She was in the kitchen, putting the roast in the microwave.

“Money will give us freedom,” Walter said.  “The more money we have, and the less money we spend, the more freedom we’ll have.”

Fran saw Mr. Krull raise his gray eyebrow with skepticism.

Mrs. Krull came out from the kitchen and frowned.

“I’m not sure about that,” Fran said.  “I’m not completely sure.”

“Fran! Fran!”  Walter jumped up from the couch.  “No one’s ever completely sure about anything!  Come on, Dad.”  Walter playfully waved his hand between Mr. Krull’s paperback and his eyes so he couldn’t red.  “You can read anything.  Let me show you my new saws.”

The two men left the farmhouse, and the door closed behind them.  The barn, where Walter did his woodworking, was only a few feet from the house.  Fran listened closely as Walter began his demonstration: circular saw, table saw, radial arm saw.  Next would be the band saw, then the saw with the extra-strength tungsten steel blade.

Mrs. Krull whistled and puttered around the kitchen, putting things away and taking things out.  She rattled a can of bent nails and laughed.  The nails, Fran remembered, they’d salvaged from an abandoned house that had been struck by lightning and partially burnt down; the wood had been too rotten, and they’d left it.  The linoleum squelched as Mrs. Krull puttered about.

Fran looked outside to their only ornamental tree, a mountain ash, which Fran had identified from a guidebook she’d gotten at a garage sale.  She’d been a regular garage saler before she fell ill.  Last spring, the mountain ash bore white flowers that resembled cauliflower.  Fran decorated the house with them and Walter made them for dinner once, but Fran couldn’t eat them.  The tree also bore red berries, and luckily, Fran thought, the berries were poisonous to humans.  Mushrooms, which Fran had persuaded Walter not to eat, outlined its root pattern.  The tree wasn’t old, but it was dying.

“You could use a modern sink,” Mrs. Krull said, trying to turn on the faucet.  She knocked over the can of nails and bent down to pick them up and her voice became nasal, her breathing labored.  “I know you two . . . want to do things . . . the natural way . . . but a little convenience. . . never hurt anyone.”

Fran felt as if every clatter was something physical hammering on her head.  She was getting a horrible headache.

“Is Walter taking you out at all?”  Mrs. Krull had recovered, and was getting out the dishes.

“He takes good care of me.”

“Do you get out?”  Mrs. Krull turned toward Fran, a chipped plate in her hand.

Fran was silent.

“It’s not good to be alone so much, Fran.  If you don’t get out, you forget what the outside world is like, and how other people live.”

“Walter bought me a cordless phone so I can call people, and a beeper so I can get a hold of him.”  Leaning down, Fran put her hand beneath the couch and produced the phone.  It was black, and dented around the edges.  She bent down again, stretching her fingers, but she couldn’t find the beeper.

“He bought you something?” Mrs. Krull said.

Fran understood that tone of voice.   She believed that children, to compensate for their parents’ obsessions, developed equal but opposite obsessions.  Walter’s parsimony was perfectly explainable in light of Mrs. Krull’s wastefulness.  The Krull house had numerous useless knickknacks that stood on numerous useless table tops.  Every cupboard was named and every wall was filled.  Moreover, they had a condo in Florida that was so inundated with things that one could barely move.

“Me,” Mrs. Krull said, and Fran understood the implication.  “Sometimes they are so insensitive.”

“Walter takes good care of me,” Fran managed to say.  Lying back down, she pulled the pink comforter up to her neck.  She looked at the ceiling and saw a water mark directly above her.  Fran wouldn’t remember which had been there first—the couch or the water marks—and it annoyed her because accurate observation had always been one of her virtues.  Her memory had been infallible.

Fran couldn’t wait till they were gone so she could watch TV and Walter could rock and meditate: every night that he was home they did that.  And they never fought, not like Walter said his parents did.  Describing to Fran the screaming, name-calling episodes obviously caused Walter pain, yet in spite of it all, Walter admitted the fights seemed to settle something.  Still, Fran believed she and Walter had a wonderfully amiable relationship, except that Walter got preoccupied with his woodworking or his extension classes.  Walter had explained the necessity for a strict routine to Fran.

*          *          *          *         *

            “Fran,” he’d said, “what’s stable?”

“The trees you just planted.”

“More stable.  More psychologically stable.”

“The house?”

“Say we were to flee, Fran,” Walter said.  “Say because the country was collapsing.”  Walter was fond of theories of government collapse: Fran knew that Armageddon attracted him.  The government’s collapse would allow him to rise to his full potential as a scientist and free thinker.

“I don’t know, Walter.  Tell me.”

“Bullion.  Gold bullion,” Walter said, his eyes animated.

“Is that where all of our money’s been going, Walter?”

Walter raised his blonde eyebrows and stroked his pointed beard.

“Is that what the holed near the compost is for?  Do you have a pot of gold in the compost?” she asked, her eyes now glittering, like his.

Walter grinned. “Money doesn’t lie.  It tells you who you are.”

“I already know who you are, Waltie,” Fran said coyly.

“I’m not finished, Fran.  Now if the country goes to hell, what do we need that we can’t produce?”

Fran thought a while about that.  “Zippers?”

Walter laughed with abandon.  “Who’s going to care about fashion when the country is going to hell!”

“Okay.  Tell me, Waltie.”

“Medicine.”

Walter believed he was on the brink of an important discovery.  He explained to Fran how he had cooked the mountain ash’s white flowers, distilled the liquids and was now culturing them.  In addition to his biochemistry degrees, Walter kept current on medicinal herbs.  Walter’s discovery—a miracle medicine—would not only save Fran, but would make them unbelievably rich.

Fran didn’t want to sound negative but hinted around that medicines sometimes took decades to develop, and required the efforts of hundreds of researchers.

“But we have need on our side,” Walter said.  “Need.”

*                      *          *          *          *          *          *         

“They just don’t realize,” Mrs. Krull said.  “Sometimes you have to spell it out.  Men don’t like to talk.  They don’t realize talking helps them solve problems.”

Mrs. Krull kept talking as she set the table.

Fran closed her eyes and imagined warm blood circulating through her muscles, soothing the cramps and aches.  She was drifting off, fantasizing about Walter and herself holding hands, laughing, singing.  She was almost asleep when she heard: “Fran!  Fran! Are you all right?”

The found face was six inches away from her.  At first Fran thought the gray eyes examining her were Walter’s, but this close she saw that Mrs. Krull’s eyes weren’t as steely as his.  The eyes looked concerned.  Fran felt ashamed of herself: Mrs. Krull had some intelligence, although it was an odd intelligence.

“I was just thinking,” Fran said sleepily.

“You think too much.  It’s not good for you.  That puts you in a rut.”

“A rut?  Do you . . . “ Fran began, putting her elbow on the couch, almost leaning against Mrs. Krull, only the pink comforter between them, and she smelled the roast and fresh peas on her and that scent of laundry detergent that his clean clothes exuded.  “I mean, here, out here, in this farmhouse, do you. . . I mean. . .”

The comforter fell and Mrs. Krull groaned elaborately as she bent down to pick it up, and Fran thought Mrs. Krull looked like herself again: the stiff brown hair in little knots that circled her pinkish pudgy face.  Fran decided not to pursue the matter.

“Fran, I should tell you.”  Mrs. Krull neatly folded the comforter and placed it at the end of the couch.

Here it comes, Fran thought.  She lay back down, but forced herself to look at Mrs. Krull.             

            “Everyone in my group has been praying for you.”

           “That’s very generous or you, Mrs. Krull.”  If she agreed with her, Fran thought, Mrs. Krull wouldn’t be as persistent.

           “Praise the Lord, Fran.  But I have a feeling something’s going to happen.”

            Fran really believed Mrs. Krull was some kind of loony.

            “Something big,” Mrs. Krull added expansively.

          “We’re going to have an earthquake,” Fran said.  She’d been reading about Japanese earthquakes.  Reading and sleeping was how she spent her days.

           “As long as I’ve lived in New York State,” Mrs. Krull said, “which is all of my life, we’ve never had an earthquake.  My feeling is about you, Fran.”

           “Praise the Lord.”  Fran didn’t want to hear anymore; sometimes Mrs. Krull’s proclamations spooked her, like the one about the almost-dead woman who suddenly regurgitated black liquids after being prayed over by Mrs. Krull’s delegation.

            Fran looked at the ceiling, her eyelids fluttered, and they began drifting close when Walter and Mr. Krull returned.  Walter went immediately to the couch and grabbing Fran’s hand, said, “How are we doing?”

         “We’re doing fine.”

           “Look at all that food,” Walter said, pulling Fran up into a sitting position.  “Just smell it.  Wonderful, huh?”  Fran saw Walter’s gray eyes open with pleasure and thought that the night could still go well.

        “Roast beef, peas, carrots,” Walter said.  “Salad.  Rolls.  Real mashed potatoes.  Gee, Mom: this is great!”  Walter gently squeezed Fran’s hand.

            “Wonderful,” Fran said.

            Walter lifted Fran’s elbows and she tried not to lean on him too much as the walked to the table.  She tried to smile.  When they all sat down, the table wobbled.

            “An early project,” Fran said.  She had to talk, to let everyone know she was okay.  They passed around the food and the table continued to wobble.  Everyone started eating when suddenly Mr. Krull said:

“Look at your son eat!”

            “George,” Mrs. Krull said sharply.  “Use some tact.”

            Mr. Krull shook his head and grumbled.

            “Working outside all day gives Walter an appetite,” Fran said.

            “Great food, Mom,” Walter said, when he got the chance.

            “Do you have an extra fork?” Mr. Krull held up a salad fork that was missing its two inner prongs.

            “Let’s see.” Walter grabbed a roll and got up to search through the silverware drawer.  Silver rattled. “Guess that’s what happens when you shop at Goodwill. You get these surprise bags.  Surprise!  Surprise!”  Walter giggled.  The silver rattled again, the Walter shook the drawer with more vigor and gave Fran his sly, elfish smile.   “How about a soup spoon?”

            Walter held up a bent spoon.

            “That’s okay,” Mrs. Krull said, shaking her head silently at an exasperated Mr. Krull.  “We’ll share.”

            “Okay.”  Walter returned to the table to eat.

            After one tablespoon of mashed potatoes, Fran gently pushed aside her plate.  Her teeth didn’t feel well.  Her hair had been falling out, but she’d heard cortisone, which she’d been on for two years, could do that.

            “Finished,” Fran said crisply.

            Mrs. Krull paused mid-air with the gravy ladle, and Mr. Krull’s mouth opened slightly.

            “Stress,” Fran said.  She knew stress could be invoked to explain almost anything.  She didn’t want an

involved discussion on her state of health.

            “Stress,” Walter echoed.  He was working on another helping of potatoes, lading on the gravy.

            “I didn’t say anything.  Not a word,” Mrs. Krull said, and she seemed to close her eyes.

            After dinner, Mr. and Mrs. Krull cleaned up, then Mr. Krull announced it was time to go: he hugged Fran and Walter, then went outside to warm the car.

            Mrs. Krull kissed Fran good-bye and told her: “Take care of yourself.”

            Fran nodded weakly and attempted a smile.  She watched Walter walk his mother to the door and step outside on the porch.  Holding onto the furniture, Fran quietly lurched and hobbled over to the doorway.   

            “She’s very depressed,” Fran heard Mrs. Krull say.

            “It’s her medicine, Mom.”

            Then you have to take her back to the doctor.  I don’t care how much it costs.  Didn’t the doctor say that the new medicine could have dangerous side effects?”

            “She’s read every book that’s eve been published on the medicines and the disease.  She’s intelligent.  We both know what’s going on.”

            “Thirty-six years old and she’s an invalid!”  Mrs. Krull said sharply.  “She would be in a hospital.  She’s starving herself to death.  You can’t leave her alone.  Ever.”

            That last word shook Fran’s entire body.  She breathed so deeply she hurt.

            “Mom,” Walter said, almost whining.  “We know what we’re doing.  Fran’s just having a relapse.  She’ll be better in a few days.”

            “She needs help.  She needs therapy, Walter.  She can’t do it alone.  You don’t understand how far it’s gone and she won’t tell you herself.  She has too much pride.”  Then Fran heard Mrs. Krull kiss her son on the cheek.  “I don’t mean to interfere.  We’ll see you next Sunday.

            Fran made it back to the couch.  She heard the Krulls’ car drive off, and Walter’s measured step on the porch’s old floorboards.  The front door opened slowly, and remained open, letting in a gush of damp night air, and Fran knew Walter was turning around, giving them one last wave.  The door closed, and Walter walked over to the couch.

            “That wasn’t so bad, was it, Hon? We had a great dinner and Mom even cleaned up the house.  But my mother’s worried about you.”  Walter patted Fran’s head, then went to his chair and started rocking.

            “She’s always worried.” Fran’s words trembled; the fast retreat back to couch made her breathe harder.  “It’s just my new medicine.”

            “How much was it?” Fran told him and Walter stopped rocking. 

             “If you’d let me call around, we could have found it cheaper.”  Then Walter started fingering his beard, and Fran thought he was going to prove something to her with his calculator, but he didn’t.  He glanced outside at the trees and said: “You know what they say, Fran: A penny saved is a penny earned.”

            “I did some calling, Waltie.  But that phone you got me—sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t.  It’s so temperamental.  Like the beeper.”

            “You have to remember to recharge it, or replace the battery.”

            “I’m sorry.  My brain hasn’t been working properly.”

            “Use the other phone.”

            Fran nodded, unable to admit that she couldn’t always make it to the other phone.

            Walter rocked.  He was upset, Fran knew; it was, after all, his money.  And he’d nursed her like a guardian angel.  Fran didn’t have any friends in New York; for the last two years, she’d been too ill to leave the farmhouse.  Most of her knowledge about married couples she gleaned from the romance novels or the women’s magazines Mrs. Krull gave her.  If a couple had to disagree about something, she believed it might as well be money; she never wanted to whine, or God forbid, turn into a shrew.

            “I’m going to sand the door,” Walter said, rising.  “I also need to check on my cultures.”

            “This is your only night off, I thought that since. . . “

            ‘Fran, I love you, but the sooner I finish the cabin . . . you know what they say, Fran.”

            “Time is money.  Money moves the world.  But sometimes, Walter, you can worry about money so much that it becomes a disease.  A real disease.  A physiological part of you.”

            “Where’d you get that idea from?  Once of your romance novels?” Walter laughed.

            Fran tried to laugh with him, but her entire day had been off, starting when she work up that morning from another nightmare about falling into something black.  The nightmare had been so strong and vivid that it moved like an aura around her.  It was something she could feel and touch, and it left a lingering smell, like the way Mrs. Krull’s roast did, but the smell wasn’t as palatable.  Fran knew something wasn’t quite right.

            “Walter,” she said, swallowing hard.  “Walter, I have this feeling.”

            Bending down, Walter brushed his lips against Fran’s sunken cheek.  “Beep me if you need anything.”  He patted her shoulder and walked towards the door.

            “Walter,” she said, her voice shrill and wavering. He stopped briefly, and she saw the lines beside his mouth harden.

            “I have work, Fran,” Walter said sharply.  “I’ll be right here.”  Then he added softly, “Only a few feet away.”

            Fran heard her determined footsteps, the door closing behind him.  Very soon she heard the sanding machine.  With the pink comforter up to her neck, Fran lay on her back, staring at the ceiling’s water marks, and her premonition of disaster was more powerful than ever, so she started singing “Partners”: “Part-ners . . .  part-ners . . . there were never such devoted part-ners. . .” As she sang, she looked outside to the mountain ash, but the ash had faded into the gray twilight, and it was as if the tree never existed.

         A chill ran up her spine.

         It was raining now, but Fran could still hear Walter’s sanding.  The sanding wasn’t nearly as soothing as his rocking.  The sander would slow down, and sometimes stop.  She worried about Walter, what he would do is she ever . . . and maybe that was what started her heart beating, beating wildly, as if it wanted to jump right out of her rib cage, as if it’d had enough of this confinement.  It wasn’t just her hair falling out, or her teeth wobbling; the illness was in her muscles, as deep as her heart muscle.  It surprised her that it had gone that deep.  She reached beneath the couch for the beeper to summon Walter; he would joke with her or sing “Marion The Librarian” from The Music Man.  She stretched her arm, then her fingers as far as she could.  At last she felt the cold plastic.  Breathless, and overcome with joyous emotion, she brought the beeper up to her chest and pressed the tiny square button.  She pressed it again.

            It was dead.

           Her heart pounded more furiously and there was a reciprocal pounding in her head and she felt faint and thought maybe she could crawl to the door; just like a baby, crawl, crawl to the door.  It wasn’t that far.  Then scream.  But she was very dizzy, so dizzy that if she lifted her head, she’d probably faint.  The room got darker and darker, almost black, and at first Fran thought it was merely a thunderhead moving over the farmhouse.  She did hear thunder.  Then she felt as if she were falling, and she wished that someone, anyone, even Mrs. Krull would burst in and cry: “Hell-lo-oo!  Anyone home?” Or maybe Walter’s generous side would assume control, and he’d appear before her.  She thought if she willed it hard enough it would happen; yes, she knew how strong the Will was, and Mrs. Krull, certain a woman of strong Will, had saved her before.

        The fall was getting slower.  It was turning out to be quite pleasant.  The sanding became fainter and fainter, even fainter than the rain.  The smell of pine and musty dampness was getting stronger.  Would anyone come?  Fran wondered.  Was there still time?