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Forces And am I not a widow myself, I hear you asking. Well, yes, but I always exempted myself from the wars because of Jack. Nobody else could hold my interest. And I cook just as little as I can, so I wasn't about to show up on Ernie's doorstep with paella. "My Hacienda cheese-and-chili casserole cannot be frozen," Matty was saying. "It would decompose. I'll heat it up for Ernie tonight and he can finish it for lunch tomorrow." I noticed that her hair had changed color since the day before; instead of blue, it had a sort of pinkish cast, like old- fashioned peach ice cream. "But Matty," Cora remonstrated. "He'll need something more substantial tonight. And chilies are terribly hard on a person's stomach who's under stress. He should have something, oh, like a nice lamb stew." She put her plump little hand, with all its turquoise rings, on the Tupperware container labeled "Cora Reynolds." The label, you understand, was just so Ernie could return the container to the right person. The two of them gave me a glance, then went back to their argument, like two major powers ignoring a third world country. And they were right, I had no status in the kitchen. I went back into the hall and down to the bedroom, by way of the linen closet. It was too early to clear out Laura's clothes; that would have to wait for Ernie's permission. But I have a little service I perform on these occasions: I change the sheets. It helps to distance the memory of that last awful night. And a fresh pillow case, to my mind, is always a promise of better things to come. I must admit it satisfied my curiosity to see the Mcintyres' bedroom (I suspect that everyone who reads a lot is, at heart, a snoop). Their bed was huge; you could imagine them having to search for each other, like the couple in that limerick who ended up foot to head. The headboard had a built-in bookcase, with Laura's mysteries and Ernie's "real books," the kind he says they don't write any more. On the walls were some Mexican hangings and the usual pictures of grandchildren. Laura's dresser was rather a mess — drawers left open and scarves and bracelets and lipsticks jumbled about. I straightened it up and dusted it with a kleenex, hoping someone would do the same for me if I went suddenly and other women descended on my house. The sheets I had chosen were a nice, soothing blue. I hoped they would remind Ernie of the sky — the infinite, in the light of which our sorrows are so small. Laura's pillowcase smelled nicely of some Cologne or night cream. It made me pause, but then I went ahead and stripped it off. As far as I could figure out, the bed was oriented diagonally to the lines of force. I decided to speak to Ernie about it at some more appropriate time. <<| 1
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