The City of Mirrors
Page 118
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But that was exactly what happened.
* * *
46
It was nearly nine o’clock when Sister Peg walked Sara out.
“Thank you for coming,” the old woman said. “It always means so much.”
A hundred and sixteen children, from the tiniest babies to young adolescents; it had taken Sara two full days to examine them all. The orphanage was a duty she could have let go of long ago. Certainly Sister Peg would have understood. Yet Sara had never been able to bring herself to do this. When a child got sick in the night, or was down with a fever, or had leapt from a swing and landed wrong, it was Sara who answered the call. Sister Peg always greeted her with a smile that said she hadn’t doubted for a second who would be gracing her door. How would the world get on without us?
Sara figured that Sister Peg had to be eighty by now. How the old woman continued to manage the place, its barely contained chaos, was a miracle. She had softened somewhat with the years. She spoke sentimentally of the children, both those in her care and the ones who had moved on; she kept track of their lives, how they made their ways in the world, and whom they married and their children if they had them, the way any mother would do. Though Sara knew the woman would never say as much, they were her family, no less than Hollis and Kate and Pim were Sara’s; they belonged to Sister Peg, and she to them.
“It’s no trouble, Sister. I’m glad to do it.”
“What do you hear from Kate?”
Sister Peg was one of the few people who knew the story.
“Nothing so far, but I didn’t expect to. The mail is so slow.”
“That was a hard thing, with Bill. But Kate will know what to do.”
“She always seems to.”
“Would it be all right if I worried about you?”
“I’ll be fine, really.”
“I know you will. But I’m going to worry anyway.”
They said their goodbyes. Sara made her way home through darkened streets; no lights burned anywhere. It had something to do with the supply of fuel for the generators—a minor hiccup at the refinery, that was the official word.
She found Hollis dozing in his reading chair, a kerosene lantern burning on the table and a book of intimidating thickness resting on his belly. The house, where they had lived for the past ten years, had been abandoned in the first wave of settlement—a small wooden bungalow, practically falling down. Hollis had spent two years restoring it, in his off hours from the library, which he was now in charge of. Who would have thought it, this bear of a man passing his days pushing a cart through the dusty shelves and reading to children? Yet that was what he loved.
She hung her jacket in the closet and went to the kitchen to warm some water for tea. The stove was still hot—Hollis always left it that way for her. She waited for the kettle to boil, then poured the water through the strainer filled with herbs she’d taken from the canisters that stood in a neat line on the shelf above the sink, each one marked in Hollis’s hand: “lemon balm,” “spearmint,” “rosehips,” and so on. It was a librarian’s habit, Hollis said, to fetishize the smallest details. Left to herself, Sara would have had to spend thirty minutes looking for everything.
Hollis stirred as she entered the living room. He rubbed his eyes and smiled groggily. “What time is it?”
Sara was sitting at the table. “I don’t know. Ten?”
“Guess I fell asleep there.”
“The water’s hot. I can make you some tea.” They always drank tea together at the end of the day.
“No, I’ll get it.”
He lumbered into the kitchen and returned with a steaming mug, which he placed on the table. Rather than sit, he moved behind her, took her shoulders in his hands, and began, with gathering pressure, to work his thumbs into the muscles. Sara let her head slump forward.
“Oh, that’s good,” she moaned.
He kneaded her neck for another minute, then cupped her shoulders and moved them in a circular motion, unleashing a series of pops and cracks.
“Ouch.”
“Just relax,” Hollis said. “God, you’re tight.”
“You would be too, if you just gave physicals to a hundred kids.”
“So tell me. How is the old witch?”
“Hollis, don’t be nasty. The woman’s a saint. I hope I’ve got half her energy at her age. Oh, right there.”
He continued his pleasurable business; bit by bit, the tensions of the day drained away.
“I can do you next if you want,” Sara said.
“Now you’re talking.”
She felt suddenly guilty. She tipped her face backward to look at him. “I have been ignoring you a little, haven’t I?”
“Comes with the territory.”
“Getting old, you mean.”
“You look pretty good to me.”
“Hollis, we’re grandparents. My hair’s practically white; my hands look like beef jerky. I won’t lie—it depresses me.”
“You talk too much. Lean forward again.”
She dropped her head to the table and nestled it into her arms. “Sara and Hollis,” she sighed, “that old married couple. Who knew we’d be those people someday?”
They drank their tea, undressed, and got into bed. Usually there were noises at night—people talking in the street, a barking dog, the various small sounds of life—but with the power out, everything was very quiet. It was true: it had been a while. A month, or was it two? But the old rhythm, the muscle memory of marriage, was still there, waiting.
* * *
46
It was nearly nine o’clock when Sister Peg walked Sara out.
“Thank you for coming,” the old woman said. “It always means so much.”
A hundred and sixteen children, from the tiniest babies to young adolescents; it had taken Sara two full days to examine them all. The orphanage was a duty she could have let go of long ago. Certainly Sister Peg would have understood. Yet Sara had never been able to bring herself to do this. When a child got sick in the night, or was down with a fever, or had leapt from a swing and landed wrong, it was Sara who answered the call. Sister Peg always greeted her with a smile that said she hadn’t doubted for a second who would be gracing her door. How would the world get on without us?
Sara figured that Sister Peg had to be eighty by now. How the old woman continued to manage the place, its barely contained chaos, was a miracle. She had softened somewhat with the years. She spoke sentimentally of the children, both those in her care and the ones who had moved on; she kept track of their lives, how they made their ways in the world, and whom they married and their children if they had them, the way any mother would do. Though Sara knew the woman would never say as much, they were her family, no less than Hollis and Kate and Pim were Sara’s; they belonged to Sister Peg, and she to them.
“It’s no trouble, Sister. I’m glad to do it.”
“What do you hear from Kate?”
Sister Peg was one of the few people who knew the story.
“Nothing so far, but I didn’t expect to. The mail is so slow.”
“That was a hard thing, with Bill. But Kate will know what to do.”
“She always seems to.”
“Would it be all right if I worried about you?”
“I’ll be fine, really.”
“I know you will. But I’m going to worry anyway.”
They said their goodbyes. Sara made her way home through darkened streets; no lights burned anywhere. It had something to do with the supply of fuel for the generators—a minor hiccup at the refinery, that was the official word.
She found Hollis dozing in his reading chair, a kerosene lantern burning on the table and a book of intimidating thickness resting on his belly. The house, where they had lived for the past ten years, had been abandoned in the first wave of settlement—a small wooden bungalow, practically falling down. Hollis had spent two years restoring it, in his off hours from the library, which he was now in charge of. Who would have thought it, this bear of a man passing his days pushing a cart through the dusty shelves and reading to children? Yet that was what he loved.
She hung her jacket in the closet and went to the kitchen to warm some water for tea. The stove was still hot—Hollis always left it that way for her. She waited for the kettle to boil, then poured the water through the strainer filled with herbs she’d taken from the canisters that stood in a neat line on the shelf above the sink, each one marked in Hollis’s hand: “lemon balm,” “spearmint,” “rosehips,” and so on. It was a librarian’s habit, Hollis said, to fetishize the smallest details. Left to herself, Sara would have had to spend thirty minutes looking for everything.
Hollis stirred as she entered the living room. He rubbed his eyes and smiled groggily. “What time is it?”
Sara was sitting at the table. “I don’t know. Ten?”
“Guess I fell asleep there.”
“The water’s hot. I can make you some tea.” They always drank tea together at the end of the day.
“No, I’ll get it.”
He lumbered into the kitchen and returned with a steaming mug, which he placed on the table. Rather than sit, he moved behind her, took her shoulders in his hands, and began, with gathering pressure, to work his thumbs into the muscles. Sara let her head slump forward.
“Oh, that’s good,” she moaned.
He kneaded her neck for another minute, then cupped her shoulders and moved them in a circular motion, unleashing a series of pops and cracks.
“Ouch.”
“Just relax,” Hollis said. “God, you’re tight.”
“You would be too, if you just gave physicals to a hundred kids.”
“So tell me. How is the old witch?”
“Hollis, don’t be nasty. The woman’s a saint. I hope I’ve got half her energy at her age. Oh, right there.”
He continued his pleasurable business; bit by bit, the tensions of the day drained away.
“I can do you next if you want,” Sara said.
“Now you’re talking.”
She felt suddenly guilty. She tipped her face backward to look at him. “I have been ignoring you a little, haven’t I?”
“Comes with the territory.”
“Getting old, you mean.”
“You look pretty good to me.”
“Hollis, we’re grandparents. My hair’s practically white; my hands look like beef jerky. I won’t lie—it depresses me.”
“You talk too much. Lean forward again.”
She dropped her head to the table and nestled it into her arms. “Sara and Hollis,” she sighed, “that old married couple. Who knew we’d be those people someday?”
They drank their tea, undressed, and got into bed. Usually there were noises at night—people talking in the street, a barking dog, the various small sounds of life—but with the power out, everything was very quiet. It was true: it had been a while. A month, or was it two? But the old rhythm, the muscle memory of marriage, was still there, waiting.
