So their winter passed. Ellie's faith in Santa Claus was restored—
temporarily at least—by the footprints in the hearth. Gage opened his presents
splendidly, pausing every now and then to munch a particularly tasty-looking
piece of wrapping paper. And that year, both kids had decided by mid-afternoon
that the boxes were more fun than the toys.
The Crandalls came over on New Year's Eve for Rachel's eggnog, and Louis
found himself mentally examining Norma. She had a pale and somehow
transparent look that he had seen before. His grandmother would have said
Norma was beginning to 'fail', and that was perhaps not such a bad word for it. All
at once her hands, so swollen and misshapen by arthritis, seemed covered with
liver-spots. Her hair looked thinner. The Crandalls went home around ten, and the
Creeds saw the New Year in together in front of the TV. It was the last time Norma
was in their house.
Most of Louis's semester break was sloppy and rainy. In terms of heating costs,
he was grateful for the protracted thaw, but the weather was still depressing and
dismal. He worked around the house, building bookshelves and cupboards for his
wife. By the time classes resumed on January 23rd, Louis was happy to go back to
the University.
The flu finally arrived—a fairly serious outbreak of it struck the campus less
than a week after the spring semester had begun, and he had his hands full—he
found himself working ten and sometimes twelve hours a day and going home
utterly whipped… but not really unhappy.
The warm spell broke on January 29th with a roar. There was a blizzard
followed by a week of numbing sub-zero weather. Louis was checking the mending
broken arm of a young man who was hoping desperately—and fruitlessly, in
Louis's opinion—that he would be able to play baseball that spring when one of
the candy-stripers poked her head in and told him his wife was on the telephone.
Louis went into his office to take the call. Rachel was crying, and he was
instantly alarmed. Ellie, he thought. She's fallen off her sled and broken her arm.
Or fractured her skull. He thought with alarm of the crazed fraternity boys and
their toboggan.
'It isn't one of the kids, is it?' he asked. 'Rachel?'
'No, no,' she said, crying harder. 'Not one of the kids. It's Norma, Lou. Norma
Crandall. She died this morning. Around eight o'clock, right after breakfast, Jud
said. He came over to see if you were here and I told him you'd left half an hour
ago. He… oh Lou, he just seemed so lost and so dazed… so old… thank God Ellie
was gone and Gage is too young to understand…'
Louis's brow furrowed, and in spite of this terrible news he found it was Rachel
his mind was going out to, seeking, trying to find. Because here it was again.
Nothing you could quite put your finger on, because it was so much of an overall
attitudinal fix. That death was a secret, a terror, and it was to be kept from the
children, above all to be kept from the children, the way that Victorian ladies and
gentlemen had believed the nasty, grotty truth about sexual relations was to be
kept from the children.
'Jesus,' he said. 'Was it her heart?'
'I don't know,' she said. She was no longer crying, but her voice was choked and
hoarse. 'Could you come, Louis? You're his friend, and I think he needs you.'
You're his friend.
Well I am, Louis thought with a small touch of surprise. I never expected to have
an eighty-year-old man for a buddy, but I guess I do. And then it occurred to him
that they had better be friends, considering what was between them. And
considering that, he supposed that Jud had known they were friends long before
Louis had. Jud had stood by him on that one, and in spite of what had happened
since, in spite of the mice, in spite of the birds, Louis felt that Jud's decision had
probably been the right one… or, if not the right one, at least the compassionate
one. He would do what he could for Jud now, and if it meant being best man at
the death of his wife, he would be that.
'On my way,' he said, and hung up.