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Forces "Ann Brentano just called us. You know — the Mcintyres' neighbor. Laura had a stroke during the night, maybe you heard the ambulance? She died at four this morning. I knew you'd want to know." "Laura Mcintyre? But I just talked to her last night!" "Yes, apparently she was fine when she went to bed. It was just — sudden. It's hard to believe." But I could tell that Polly believed it easily. She spoke patiently, like a grown-up talking to a child. And she was right. Living here in Buena Vista is like waiting in a big airline terminal with a crowd of people on standby. We should be prepared, but every sudden departure is a shock. I got dressed and went out to feel the sun warm up the morning. Dewdrops, tiny rainbow flashes in the grass, winked and dried away while I stood there. I could almost hear Jack's roses opening, popping like fireworks, pinwheels and puffs of color. It was clear to me that the world must be full of positive forces, to counteract whatever could erase Laura Mcintyre overnight. I said a little prayer for Laura and asked God to sustain Ernie in his loss. Then I had a quick breakfast and went on down to the Mcintyres' house. As I expected, there were widows everywhere. Elizabeth Cunningham arrived when I did, carrying a casserole. Ann Brentano came to the door and let us in. Cora Reynolds and the unbearable Matty Waterhouse were in the kitchen, and Violet Pfeifer was in the living room on the phone. Poor Ernie wasn't home, he was somewhere dealing with "arrangements." I went into the kitchen, where Cora and Matty were arguing about which casserole to freeze and which to put into the fridge. The counter top — the yellow and blue tiles that Laura had picked out herself at the factory in Oaxaca — was covered with food. Cakes, pies, casseroles, Tupperware, baking pans wrapped in foil. Every one an offering from a widow. You might wonder how they got that cooking done so early in the day, but believe me, they have their ways. You see, a retirement community is like a medieval manor: there are three distinct social classes. At the top are the widowers, the pampered few. In the middle are the couples, the doughty villagers. At the bottom are the widows, the serfs. Excellent women in their own right, but desperate. And when someone as popular and healthy as Ernie is suddenly elevated to widower status, there is a stampede not unlike the opening up of Oklahoma to homesteaders in April of 1889. <<| 1
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