Give birth as soon as you can, croaked Grandma Mary, swinging her legs off the bed. It was the eightyseventh year of her life, and she could barely recall what it felt like to be alive, yet her grandson and greatgrandson kept urging her forward, occasionally nudging her with a cane.
Youll end up in a blue stocking, mum, and youll be thinking of old times when its too late, theyd warn, their voices tasting of bitter tea.
Now Grandma Mary grew somber, refusing to rise, muttering at the householdWhy did I raise you lot, you vipers, to doze until noon?and the clatter of pots in the kitchen rang out at half past six. The family grew uneasy.
Grandma, asked fiveyearold Lily, her greatgranddaughter, why dont you curse us any more?
Im about to go, dear, its my time, Mary sighed, her breath a mixture of sorrow for the life slipping away and a faint hope for something beyond the pot of borscht youve all forgotten how to simmer.
Lily darted to the kitchen where the rest of the clan huddled. Grandma Marys groundhog died! she announced, reporting the latest intelligence from her covert reconnaissance.
What groundhog? asked the head of the family, also the eldest son, Victor Whitaker, his eyebrows rising like tangled hedgerows. He looked as if hed stepped out of a fairyarn about a seabound wanderer, the sort of character for whom the wind seems to stroll through the streets.
Probably just an old thing, Lily shrugged. She had never seen the creature; grandmother never showed it to her.
The elders exchanged glances.
The next morning a composed doctor arrived, his words measured.
Somethings not right with her, he declared.
Obviously, Victor clapped his hands on his thighs, or else wed have called you!
The doctor studied him, then his wife.
Agerelated, he pronounced, unwavering. I see no serious abnormalities. What are the symptoms?
She stopped telling me when to make lunch or dinner! the wife, already a grandmother herself, whispered, her voice trembling. All her life she poked me with her nose, saying my hands were strange, and now she wont even step into the kitchen.
At the familywide council with the doctor they agreed the signs were alarming. Exhausted by worry, they lay down as if they might sink into the floor.
That night Victor awoke to the familiar scuffle of slippers. This time, however, the sound did not demand an immediate rise for breakfast or work.
Mum? he whispered into the corridor.
A lazy, husky voice floated from the darkness.
Whats up?
Listen, while youre all asleep Im slipping off to meet Mick Jacobs, the voice said, as if Grandma Mary were finally pulling herself together. Im off to the loowhere else?
Victor flicked on the kitchen light, set the kettle to boil, and sank into a chair, cradling his head.
Hungry? the old woman asked from the hallway, eyes fixed on him.
Just waiting for you. What was that, Mum?
Grandma Mary shuffled to the table.
Ive been holed up in my room for five days, she began, when a pigeon slammed into the windowbang! I thought it was a death omen. I lay down, waiting. Day after day, I waited, and then, in the dead of night, I wondered, Why not send that omen to the meadow to the goblin, so I could burn through life beneath the sheets? Pour me some tea, hot and strong. For three days weve hardly spoken, son; well make up for lost time.
Victor fell asleep at half past five in the morning, while Grandma Mary stayed in the kitchen, determined to cook breakfast herselfno one else could manage to feed the children properly, not with those frail little hands.
