The Lesson

Now, Within the House

Loring made her way slowly to the chair in the parlor and sank into it. She was not embarrassed by what had happened, but she did feel foolish. Her hands were feathered with little cuts. Her legs hurt terribly, especially by her ankles.

Keep working, she told them. There’s much left for you to do.

Ezra had told her once that speaking to things was never useless. This is not the same thing as believing her legs could hear her. Do you see what I mean?

Why did I begin to cry earlier? thought Loring.

At the same time, she thought: the box is upstairs, sitting in its new place closer to the edge of the table.

At the same time, she thought: the boy does not actually seem to be able to play chess at all. What a silly idea that was — that he might have anything to do with Ezra.

And yet, it might come and go. This is something the old often have faith in — that things come and go. People used to believe such things. A statue in the center of a town: sometimes is a god, and other times, it is something upon which to hang laundry. Anthropologists rack their brains for the way this works, but it is in plain sight. Life’s daily routines can be a cycle like the moon’s phases; when the moon is full, things are different, baldly different, than when the moon is new. Why should a statue not be just the same? Or a boy? Or anything, anything at all.