Early Warning

1960

HENRY DIDN’T THINK about Rosa much. Sometimes he identified her to himself as his “first love,” rather like Flora in Little Dorrit—the wrong girl, fortunately escaped, though she wasn’t silly, like Flora — she was argumentative, resentful, beautiful, and severe. And yet, when he got to the part in Eloise’s letter where Eloise said that Rosa had gotten married and seemed to be having a baby, he felt his mood darken. He read it over: “I don’t know if you met Elton Jackman when you were here. He is friends of friends. Anyway, Rosa has told me that she and Elton had decided to get married in a simple ceremony down in Big Sur (to which I was not invited, also not surprised) and they will now live down there with some friends until their baby is born (I guess it’s due in June).” Then she went on to write about some organizing she was doing in Oakland.

Henry had met Elton Jackman once — a small, wiry fellow whose real name, it was said, was O’Connell, and whose real game, it was said, was fencing stolen goods, though when the horses were running at Golden Gate, Bay Meadows, or Tanforan, he spent most of his time there. Jackman would take Rosa’s literary friends to the races and induce them to bet (and to fund his betting); he would give them a decent tip often enough so that they felt flush. Jackman, talkative and funny, was a bona-fide member of the Lumpenproletariat. Henry thought he was maybe forty-five or so by this time. He himself was twenty-seven, Rosa nearly twenty-six; when he broke up with Sandra, this seemed old, but now it seemed almost virginal. He had thought that failed romances were Rosa’s vocation, along with mourning the father she lost in the war. Obviously to everyone, including Rosa, these two activities were deeply and meaningfully intertwined, and getting knocked up by Eddie O’Connell could easily be the culmination of them.

There was a letter from Sandra, too, not in today’s mail, but in Friday’s, now four days old, which he hadn’t read, much less responded to. He sincerely hoped that Sandra was full of the same news — she was marrying an older man, she was pregnant, she was happy, she was defiant, she was thrilled beyond words to have escaped their hasty engagement, which Henry had attributed to the excitement of finding not one but two Roman coins in the same day on their dig in Colchester (“Camulodunon,” then “Camulodunum,” then, perhaps, “Camelot”?).

Henry went into his perfectly neat bedroom and opened his perfectly neat closet. Stacked on the shelf, perfectly folded, were three sweater vests in shades of brown — he called them “tobacco” (an Arawakian/Caribbean word apparently related to Arabic tabaq for “herbs,” describing in its very being the colonization of the Western Hemisphere by the Spanish), “rust” (from the Old English root, rudu, for “redness,” and obviously related to “red,” but also to erythros, Greek, and rudhira, Sanskrit, and the only color with such broad provenance, and what did that mean?), and “shit,” the darkest one, from Old English scitan, to “shed,” “separate,” or “purge,” also the root for “science”). Henry chose the rust, and then a nice Harris-tweed jacket with a bluish green cast, and a navy blue scarf.

The idea that his class would be starting on Beowulf in two hours reminded him that he should drop a note to Professor McGalliard, that man of infinite patience who had taught him everything he knew — or, rather, everything that Henry had been capable of learning at the time, which right now didn’t seem like much — and who had recommended him for this position. Henry had a couple of chapters to go on his dissertation, but when the department had gone to McGalliard for advice right after Professor Atlee dropped dead of a heart attack in August, he had recommended Henry most highly, so here he was. Professor McGalliard had never married. Now that Henry was rid of Sandra, never marrying seemed like the purest option.

Henry put on his coat, picked up his briefcase, went out the door to his apartment, closed the door behind him, made sure it was locked, put on his rubbers, wrapped his scarf around his neck, and went down the three steps to the outside door. Several kids had come home for lunch from the nearby elementary school, and were making snowballs in front of the apartment building next door. Henry waved to them. It was January. There had been four snowstorms before this, and all three of the boys knew that Henry had good aim, so they smiled, shouted hello, and kept their hands down.

Henry swore that he would open Sandra’s letter when he got home that evening.

He had five students. Whether they would get through all thirty-two hundred lines of Beowulf by May, Henry had no idea — that was sixteen weeks. Two hundred lines a week might be a lot. But anything was better than nothing. They looked at him expectantly, and so he opened a large book to a marked page and pushed it to the center of the seminar table. He said, “See that mound? I wish the picture were in color. It’s a beautiful grassy green. It is Eadgils Mound, in Uppsala, in Sweden. When it was excavated in 1874, it contained a corpse lying on a bearskin, with his sword and other precious possessions, indicating that he was a king. He seems to have died in the middle of the sixth century. When you are translating this poem, I want you to think of it as not only a monster tale, but also a historical record. This poem is considered to be about Eadgils, the king in the grave.” The students’ heads went up and down.

Class lasted two hours. They got twenty-five lines translated — from “Hwaet! We Gardena” to “man geptheon” (“What! We learn of the Danes of the Spear…” to “a man shall thrive”). It did not make much sense, but the students seemed to enjoy the puzzle. That’s what Henry said at the end of the class: “Think of the poem as a puzzle, not only a translation, but a jigsaw puzzle that will only become a meaningful picture when you’ve put all the pieces together. That means we have to be patient.”

He ate his supper at a café near the campus, then trotted all the way home, which took a single invigorating hour. Once home, he put off reading Sandra’s letter by working on his last chapter, a consideration of “The Battle of Maldon” and the monk Byrhtferth.

Finally, he picked up Sandra’s letter, slit it open, and got into bed with it. He was so sleepy that he hoped he wouldn’t really understand a thing that she wrote. The letter was surprisingly short. It read, “Dear Henry, I have only one thing to say. I no longer think that our engagement failed because you are American and I am English. I know I said that, and it made sense at the time, as Americans are known for their enthusiasm which then falters as novelty and amusement give way to commitment and familiarity. My sister told me about a fellow she went for at University who treated her as you treated me — always kind and more and more distant. He came up queer as a nine bob note. You might think about it. Yours truly, Sandra Boulstridge.”

The interesting thing to Henry was that he wasn’t offended. But he also decided to complete his dissertation before thinking any more about it.

—

HER MOTHER AND FATHER could not afford to buy her a horse. No plan or scheme that Debbie had managed to come up with (including sending Uncle Frank and Aunt Andy a letter, asking very respectfully for a loan of a thousand dollars, to be paid back in ten years, at 5 percent interest) had worked. But now that Debbie had met Fiona Cannon, who was a year ahead of her at school, she didn’t care about a horse of her own. Fiona had two horses — or, rather, a horse (Prince) and a pony (Rufus) — and riding with Fiona was far more fun than any camp or lesson she had ever experienced. She rode Rufus, who was a pinto and very low to the ground. She had fallen off Rufus dozens of times — she was expected to fall off Rufus. She was also expected to watch Fiona, who rode Prince. Debbie knew the expression “He rode rings around her,” but she had no idea that it was so much fun to have rings ridden around her.

Fiona lived three stops farther on the school bus. She was an only child, and she kept Rufus and Prince at home, but home was not a fancy place with a stable and a riding ring — home was a two-story house with a wraparound porch down by the road, and a big fenced field that dipped, ran up the hillside, and ended at the trees. Rufus and Prince lived together in the field, and all of Fiona’s equipment and tack was stored in the garage. Fiona’s mom was a teacher at the high school, and her dad had a diner in town that served breakfast and lunch but not dinner. Debbie had been there; she liked the waffles.

When Fiona invited her — not every day, but lots of days — Timmy was supposed to tell Mom that she was going to Fiona’s, and most times he did. They dropped their books inside the house, changed clothes (she was just a little shorter and thinner than Fiona), and went out back, where Fiona stood at the gate with a bucket of oats and a lead rope, smacking the chain of the lead rope against the bucket and shouting, “Come in, come in!” And then the best thing happened — Prince and Rufus came galloping down the hill, exactly as if they were happy to see them, Fiona of course, but also Debbie, it seemed. While Prince ate from the bucket, Debbie fed a couple of handfuls to Rufus. Then they brushed them and picked their hooves.

Debbie stood Rufus up next to the fence and clambered on bareback. He was slick beneath her, so she entwined the fingers of one hand in his mane and gripped the lead rope with the other. Fiona eased onto Prince, and sat there, limber and relaxed, until Debbie felt secure; then Fiona clapped her legs against Prince’s sides and headed diagonally up the hill in a big walk. Rufus jogged a little to keep up. Prince was a beautiful horse, a Thoroughbred who had raced at Pimlico. He was a chestnut (Debbie mouthed the word “chestnut”) with a blaze and two white feet.

As far as Debbie could tell, Fiona could do anything on a horse. It was not only jumping and fox hunting — in Virginia, lots of people did that. Fiona loved riding bareback, and she could do some things that you only saw in movies, like slide to one side and show her face under Prince’s neck at a canter, and then pull herself upright again. She could also ride backward, jump off at a trot and a canter, and get Prince to turn, stop, and back up without any bridle or halter at all, just voice commands and the weight of her body.

Debbie wasn’t sure what Fiona saw in her — they weren’t special friends at school. Debbie was in a group of seventh-graders who took Latin instead of French and thought serving on the Student Council was important. Most of them didn’t know who Fiona was, but in the fall, at the bus stand, Fiona had overheard Debbie say to one girl that she was going to have a set of riding lessons, and then she had started talking to her that afternoon. The next day, she had invited Debbie to meet Rufus and Prince, which was, of course, fine with Mom, who thought that Debbie did not need to copy her homework over twice just to make sure every word was perfect.

The horses ambled along nicely, until the dip was below them and the hillside stretched damp and green before them. All along the fence to their left, the dogwoods were blooming against the darker background of the not-yet-leafy trees, and there were a few bluebells. In the fall, they had picked blackberries at the top of the hill, right from the backs of their horses, while the horses ate grass. Now they walked along the fence about halfway up the slope; then Fiona said, “Stop a minute and watch this.” Debbie pulled on Rufus’s lead rope, and Rufus halted. Fiona trotted on up the hillside for another ten or fifteen feet and turned Prince, still trotting; as he trotted down the slope, she squatted on his bare back, and then stood up. After a few strides, she dropped the lead rope and jumped into the air, bending her knees. He trotted out from under her. She landed on her feet. Debbie clapped, and Fiona gave a little bow. She pulled a piece of carrot out of her pocket and called, “Prince! Come in!” Prince looped a lazy circle and took some bites of grass, but after thinking about it for a moment, he came up the hill and received his carrot. Rufus wanted a piece, too. When Fiona had given him a tiny bit, she said, “I started doing that over the weekend. I want to try it at a canter.”

Debbie had learned to sit calmly on Rufus and say, no matter what Fiona proposed, “That would be fun.” What Fiona saw in her was a mystery, unless it was that whatever she wanted to say about the horses Debbie was happy to listen to: Prince had won three races, his racing name was Ball Four, he was by Shut Out, which meant Shut Out was his sire. One day, out fox hunting, Fiona had stayed in the front, and when they had a kill she got a pad; a pad was the fox’s foot; only grown-ups got the brush, which was the tail, or the mask, which was the head. Her boots had cost sixty dollars; her saddle had cost seventy-five dollars; it was from England. Someday she was going to hunt in England; the best hunt there was the Belvoir; she could grow up to be a whipper-in. Now she said, “Okay, I’m going to do it again. You go down the hill and wait on the flat part.” Debbie turned Rufus and went down at a walk while Fiona went up at a canter. By the time Debbie had Rufus right in the middle of the flat part, Fiona and Prince were at the top, pointed downward. Debbie waved. Fiona clapped her legs against Prince’s sides, and he started to canter. Fiona leaned back, and then she was squatting on Prince’s back, her hand still clutching the lead rope, and then Prince was galloping right at Debbie and Rufus. Fiona stood up. Debbie held the pony’s mane, bit her lip.

Prince kept coming. Fiona stood like someone in the circus, her knees slightly bent, holding the lead rope with both hands — maybe she had decided she was going too fast this time to jump off. But she didn’t look scared; she looked surprised and excited. They came on. Debbie had no idea what Rufus would do. The hoofbeats sounded loud to her, even though they were muffled by the grass and the dirt, and Prince looked enormous. They came on. Debbie tightened her legs around Rufus’s fat sides. She could see Fiona’s mouth open as she raised her right hand and straightened her shoulders, still standing on Prince’s back. Debbie’s heart was pounding. At the last moment, Rufus jumped to one side, and Prince skipped to the other. Debbie slid but hung on. Fiona flexed and kept her balance. Two strides later, she squatted down again, with Prince still galloping, put her hands in his mane, and dropped to his back. At the lower fence, Fiona brought him around in a big trot circle, then came back up the hill. Debbie fell forward onto Rufus’s neck, her face in his bushy pony mane. She did not want to be the one to faint and fall off. She closed her eyes.

Fiona’s face was flushed, but she was nonchalant about the whole thing by the time she and Prince got back to Debbie and Rufus. Rufus was nonchalant, too, but Prince was delighted with himself — he arched his neck and picked up his feet and took deep breaths. Fiona said, “Horses are really good at knowing where they are.” Then, “I’m sorry if I scared you.”

Debbie said, “You didn’t.”

But for the rest of their ride, all they did was wander around the field. Fiona made Debbie trot in a circle both ways for a few minutes, just to practice. And, of course, when the horses were cooled out and they went in the house for a snack, Mr. Cannon was home, and he said, “You girls having a good time?” Fiona shrugged. Debbie said, “Yes. I love Rufus.”

“He’s a good pony.”

After they looked at Fiona’s latest issue of The Chronicle of the Horse, Mr. Cannon drove Debbie home while Fiona took the horses their hay. All Mom said when she walked in the house was “Hi, honey. The fresh air is doing you good.”

—

JIM UPJOHN HAD his way, of course, and Frank was brought in by the board of Fremont Oil to “reorganize and redirect operations.” Frank’s “objectivity” was secured by means of a very large salary and no stock in the company. Uncle Jens had some proportion of his assets in oil, but none in Fremont. Fortunately for Frank, Hal and Friskie had already moved the corporate offices from Tulsa to Manhattan, so, when Andy and Janny went looking for a new house the better to accommodate Frank’s new position, they didn’t have to look far. Andy liked Englewood Cliffs, because she could get to the Upper West Side quite easily, and the schools, the private schools, were said to be excellent.

Frank was quite friendly with Hal and Friskie. Hal was thirty-one and Friskie was twenty-eight. Frank alternated between treating them like kid brothers and like experts. Every time Hal told him what to do, Frank smiled cheerfully and said, “I think that’s a great idea.” Friskie wasn’t much of a suggester, more of a complainer, so when Friskie came charging into his office, upset about something, Frank was sympathetic, offered him a drink (Friskie liked a straight shot of The Glenlivet). He also listened to their views about their father — that he was over the hill, that he didn’t understand the modern world, that he always acted on impulse. When push came to shove, that’s what he did — shoved them around with those big hands of his. Frank nodded and shook his head with all kinds of sympathy and said that his father had been just the same way, a farmer who had his belt off at least once a day, “The only question was, buckle end or not buckle end?” This made them laugh. They thought Frank was on their side.

Jim Upjohn had led him to believe that Dave Courtland would be buying property somewhere nearby — if not Manhattan or New Jersey, then a place in Southampton. But Dave Courtland hated the East as much as he hated the North. His favorite places were Caracas and Galveston. Frank did not mind not seeing him, because he and Jim Upjohn were in complete agreement about developing the Venezuelan oil fields to their most attractive potential, and then allowing a hostile takeover by Jersey or Getty. When Frank expressed a bit of nervousness about Dave Courtland’s reaction, Jim laughed and said, “Oh hell. Millions of bucks are a good tranquilizer. He’ll have a tantrum and then, no doubt, decide to use that money to do a little more exploring. And that will rejuvenate the old coot. We’ll buy him a nice donkey. The fellow who started a company can’t run it when it’s going strong. They get bored and cranky, so you have to send them out to start something new. Maybe he’ll get remorse, like Carnegie did, and build something for the workers.” Jim Upjohn was the only man Frank regularly spoke with who pronounced it like Eloise did, “the workers.”

Frank said, “What about Hal and Friskie?”

“They’re both engaged, as you know. Hal’s marrying into the Corneliuses, and Friskie’s got himself a Sulzberger cousin. First cousin. The fate of the company is a problem for them, not a project. The way I see it, we’re pointing them all toward a form of family happiness they’ve never experienced before.” Then he laughed. Jim Upjohn was the most casually self-confident person Frank had ever met.

—

BILLY WESTON, who lived down the street from Richie and Michael (for now, but Mommy said that they would be moving soon, and to a much nicer neighborhood), had gotten a tent for his eighth birthday, and had invited Richie and Michael to help him set it up; Billy’s dad had shown him how to pound in the stakes and said that he could work on it on his own. As far as Richie was concerned, there was only one thing wrong with Billy Weston, and that was that he didn’t have a twin. Richie had to watch very carefully to see whether Billy, who had lots of good stuff, seemed to be playing more with Michael or with him. If Billy had had a twin, then he and Michael would each have had a friend, but Billy had four sisters, who ran into the house every time Richie and Michael came over.

The tent was not a tepee. It was long, and each end was a triangle with flaps that hung down, and the flaps had four ties. There was a floor in the tent, and Billy said that you could take it into the woods when it was cold or rainy and zip up the flaps and have a lantern inside and sleep all night, even if a bear showed up. They were not taking it into the woods; they were setting it up in Billy’s backyard.

What you did was, you spread the tent out on the grass, and made sure that the floor was smooth and that the edges were straight. Then Billy, who was inside the tent, gave Richie four stakes and Michael four stakes. A stake was a pointed piece of iron with an L-shaped bend at the top. Richie did what he was told, which was to go along the long edge of the tent on one side and pull out the loops, then set a stake beside each loop. Michael did the same thing on the other side.

Billy had one hammer. The three of them took turns. Billy pounded a stake on Richie’s side and a stake on Michael’s side; then he gave the hammer to Richie, and Richie started to pound the stake. It was easier than a nail, because the L-shape wasn’t as small as the head of a nail. Richie hit the L-shape twice, and it went in a little. Michael said, “I want to do it.” Richie didn’t pay any attention to him, and pounded twice more. It got in a little ways farther, but still not halfway. Richie stopped and took a deep breath. Michael stuck out his tongue. Richie hit the stake twice more.

When the stake was finally in, with two hits from Billy, they took the hammer around the tent, and Michael did his first one. He got it in on four hits. Pretty deep, too. This made Richie mad. It always made him mad that he was older but Michael was bigger and stronger. Michael never let him forget it. His dad said that that should make Richie fight harder and smarter, but that didn’t work every time. Billy brought the hammer around, and the other two boys watched Richie do his second stake. Because he’d had some practice in aiming this time, he got it in on four hits, so he felt not as mad. It went like that. After all the stakes were in, they walked around the tent and crawled into it and sat and lay down, then crawled out of it. It smelled bad, but Richie thought it was neat — a little dark, like you could hear a ghost story in there. Billy must have felt the same way, so he went into the house to get a blanket and some comic books. He was still talking more to Michael than to him, and Michael kept giving Richie that look. The thing about Michael was that he didn’t have to say a word to get Richie — his every look and movement rippled through Richie, no matter whether he wanted them to or not.

Once they had the blanket and the comics, Billy decided they needed 7-Ups because they had worked hard, so he headed back to the house. Michael took the blanket into the tent to spread it out. He said, “Leave the comics alone. I get first dibs.” Richie didn’t say anything. He most of the time didn’t say anything.

Squatting there by the side of the tent, Richie saw that one of the stakes might be coming out, so he picked up the hammer where they’d dropped it in the grass and hit the stake. It went in a little, so he hit it again. It was after the second hit that he saw the bump moving along the roof of the tent. Of course he knew it was Michael’s head — he wasn’t an idiot. The bump pushed out, then slipped to the right, then pushed out, then slipped to the right, and he lifted the hammer and hit it. There was a loud groan. The bump went away, and there was a sound of rustling. He went around and looked between the flaps. Michael was lying on his side.

Just then, Billy showed up with the 7-Ups and said, “What happened?” And Richie said, “I hit him with the hammer.”

Billy ran for the house.

That was when it got scary, because Mrs. Weston came screaming out the door and the girls were behind her, and all the girls gave him mean looks. Billy looked worried, too. Michael was still lying there; “out cold” was an expression they said on TV. This must be it, Richie thought.

Mrs. Weston dragged Michael out of the tent and laid him on the grass, and the oldest girl, Randy, ran into the house to call Nedra; as quick as could be, Nedra came running down the street and through the gate, shouting, “Oh my Lord, oh my Lord! What a pair of boys, it’s always something.” She smacked Richie on the head and said, “This time maybe you killed him and got your wish, you naughty child. I will deal with you later.”

Nedra had a stick of butter in her hand, and as she started to open the paper wrapping, Michael groaned and moved. Nedra held him down and said, “Now, don’t move, Michael; that a boy.” Mrs. Weston patted Michael on the arm. Nedra felt around on Michael’s head and said, “Well, here’s the goose egg — heavens to Betsy — big as my fist,” and she put the butter on it and made him lie there. The girls went back inside. Then Nedra said, “What in the world did you do this for? Two days ago, they were pushing each other on the stairs. They said it was just a game, but it looks like all-out war to me.”

Richie said, “It was just a game.”

Mrs. Weston started shaking her head. “Well, boys don’t know the difference half the time. And girls! Well, I don’t know which is worse. He’s coming around.” Michael sat up. Richie wondered if Nedra was going to tell on him. Nedra said, “Maybe I should take him to the doctor. Mr. Langdon is in Venezuela again, and the missus is over the river.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Mrs. Weston. “He’s fine. Let’s have a cup of coffee. Look at him. Michael, you okay?”

Michael nodded.

“Do you feel like you need to go to the doctor?”

Michael said, “I don’t want to go to the doctor.” He felt his bump, then sniffed, but he didn’t cry. He didn’t have a single tear. “Can we go in the tent and read some comics?”

“Sure,” said Mrs. Weston. “But if you feel like you are going to pass out, you send Billy to get me, okay?”

Michael nodded.

Nedra said, “I need a smoke.”

Mrs. Weston said, “Me, too.”

The two women stood up, and after a moment, Michael crawled into the tent, then Billy. Richie crawled in after them. They settled themselves, and Billy handed each one a comic book and a 7-Up. That was that, thought Richie. For now. But he was going to have to watch out, and not for Nedra. He looked around Billy at Michael, who was reading and touching the bump in the back of his head with his finger. No, Richie thought, he wasn’t sorry. It was a good thing he hadn’t been made to say he was.

—

THE NEW HOUSE HAD a long driveway, but Andy had already foreseen the blizzard and left the car at the end of it — all she had to do was wait for the plow and shovel it out. As soon as she got up, she pulled on her warm clothes and went out to check. The snow, still quietly balanced just where it had fallen, undisturbed as yet by wind or movement, was a work of art. She stood beside the car, staring around. Though she had never been one to make use of snow, like her brother, Sven, and the other Norwegian relatives, she had always appreciated it as a type of raiment, hiding, smoothing, brightening.

Inside, the call had come — no school. She prevented herself from mentioning snowstorms in Decorah — that time they were walking home, which normally took fifteen minutes, and so much snow fell just in that struggling half-hour that she and Sven had to take refuge in the house at the foot of their block, and be taken home an hour later by that neighbor boy — what was his name? — who pulled them on a sled. She said, “What are you going to do today, then?”

Janny looked up at her. “Can anyone come over?”

“In this weather? I doubt it,” said Andy.

“I think we should bake some Christmas cookies,” said Nedra.

“Spritz would be nice,” said Andy.

“I like those best,” said Janny.

“What about the boys?” said Andy.

“They will do what they do,” said Nedra.

“At least they have their own rooms now,” said Andy.

“When they need solitary confinement,” said Nedra.

Andy laughed.

Frank was somewhere. Andy couldn’t remember where. All she knew was that after Christmas she was expected to go with him to Caracas, take kisses on each cheek, and speak a little Spanish. And after that, he had told her, now that they were moved in and the decorators had finished their work, she would be expected to have parties, at least cocktail parties — catered, it was true, but still busy and invasive. Possibly she would talk to Dr. Grossman about that very thing today.

The plow had gone by when she came out again, and done an excellent, quiet job. It took her no time to shovel out the car, and quite soon, she was heading toward East Palisades, carefully but smoothly. Most of her neighbors were snowed in. East Palisades was fine, and when she turned south on the Parkway, she saw that everyone was moving along. The jam on the GW Bridge was a pleasant jam — the sun was shining now, and the Hudson, not frozen, sported glinting lozenges of thin, floating ice. Then she turned south on the West Side Highway, and from there, only five miles, however long it took. Since she had given herself an hour, she could take her time. Riverside Park was as beautiful as her own road had been, but in a bright, urban way, and plenty of people were out, walking in their furs and boots, smiling, enjoying the novel cleanliness.

When Dr. Grossman opened the door to Andy, she looked a little surprised — how had Andy made the trip on such a day? So Andy thought of telling her that old story about the snow: six inches in half an hour, an avalanche. Had they been frightened? She couldn’t remember, and Sven would not have admitted it if they had. She could say that they were layered and piled with bright-colored knitted hats and sweaters and mittens and vests and leggings and stockings — imagining it made her feel happy as she settled down on the couch.

But there, there she was again, and what she did tell was the story of Uncle Jens and Aunt Eva, the immigrants, the first to come, who tried Minnesota, or was it North Dakota? Wherever the most Norskies had gone and the land was cheapest. They had no luck, though: Aunt Eva went mad with the endless horizon and took refuge on a wooden trunk they had brought with them from Stavanger, and then Uncle Jens got caught in a blizzard, skiing from town with provisions. He took refuge on the leeside of a haystack, and was found frozen there days later. Dr. Grossman said not a word as she told this story, and why was she back to doing this, telling stories? It had nothing to do with her family. Uncle Jens had made a fortune, for his time, and Aunt Eva had been a well-read and well-respected matron, who spoke not only Norwegian and English but French, and had traveled to Copenhagen and then to Paris as a girl, before coming to America. She’d thought that Dr. Grossman was immune to this, and had refrained for months, but then Dr. Grossman had made the mistake of saying that every story, every dream, everything that you were moved to relate had meaning, and often those things that seemed most meaningless had the most hidden meanings. Andy didn’t know whether to believe her, but she had succumbed to temptation. Now there was a long silence, and Andy brought into her mind once again the way the lattice of snow had lain so gently upon the tree branches that morning, how fluffy it was, how beautiful and transient.