From Time to Time

30

I’M HOME NOW. For good. And sitting out here in the not-quite-darkness of our front stoop—there’s a streetlamp down at the curb—I’m okay, I’m all right. Pretty much, anyway. But I don’t want to leave here again, don’t ever want to be anywhere else. And don’t want to ever again even think of Rube Prien. Or Dr. D and how right he was. Rover’s out there across the street somewhere. He glances over here a lot; I see his eyes glint green from the street-lamp on that side. Wants to be sure I’m here while he checks out that the neighborhood is still unchanged.

Which it almost is, though not quite. Last night I walked down the block a way, checking out the neighborhood myself, and saw the funeral wreath on old Mr. Bostick’s front door: the stiff dark wreath with small lavender flowers that we hang on our front doors to say that someone in this house has died. Old Bostick was born in 1799, the year George Washington died; for a few months, weeks, or maybe only days they might have been alive together. Imagine it. Now he’s gone, a thread to the past broken. But they break every day, don’t they, the past ever receding, growing stiller and stiller in our minds.

Gloomy obvious thoughts, sitting out here. But I’ll stop pretty soon. Stop thinking so much of what happened. And stop thinking of the Jot; I hope she got off, I’m sure she did. She wouldn’t let me come with her; she was crying and actually ran away.

Yes, Rove, I’m still here: haven’t slammed the door and left you to go seek your fortune. I’m here, and Julia is upstairs putting Willy to bed. I’m sure he’ll be okay in years to come; forewarned is forearmed. Julia will be getting ready for bed herself soon, and I’ll go up to join her, and that’s a very nice thought. But sneaking in under the tent—damn it, I don’t know how to stop this!—is the Jotta Girl. The knowledge that we could have, might have, and almost did. Even worse is the tiny twinge of regret I feel about that. No denying it, and I wonder—oh hell, I wonder how that would have been. Cut it out, cut it out, cut it out.

Old Rove crossing through the little puddle of streetlamp light, coming up the steps now, tongue out, to join me companionably, sitting down here with expectant certainty of a splendid, non-skimpy ear rub. In a couple of minutes, then, I’ll go in and upstairs to Julia. And tomorrow I’ll make a start on planning; making notes and lists. Have to seal all the ground-floor windows, I think, in our house and Aunt Ada’s. Maybe have her move in with us for a week, that would be best. Figure how much food to get in, and coal and wood; at least a cord. All the things I’ll have to do—okay, Rove, in we go—to get us ready for the Blizzard of ’88.