Give birth as soon as possible, croaked Grandma Margaret, swinging her legs off the bedside. She was in her eightyseventh year, and the memory of her own prime had long since faded, though her grandson and greatgrandson pressed her with gentle reminders, occasionally nudging her with a cane. If you linger, youll be left with a blue stocking and remember your old age too late, they warned.
Now Margaret grew sullen, refusing to rise, muttering spitefully at the householdWhy did I raise you scorpions, only to have you slumber till noon?and the kitchen rang with clattering pots at half past six in the morning. The family took notice.
Grandma, asked fiveyearold greatgranddaughter Ethel, why dont you curse us any more?
Its time, dear, time for the end, Margaret sighed, speaking of her passing as if it were a melancholy farewell or perhaps a hopeful doorway beyond the broth that the younger ones had forgotten how to simmer.
Ethel fled to the hidden relatives gathered in the pantry. Grandma Margarets groundhog has died! she announced, reporting the latest intelligence from her clandestine reconnaissance.
What groundhog? asked the family head, also Margarets eldest son, Victor Lyle, raising his bushy brows. He resembled the Black Forest sprite of old tales, the sort of creature one would say the wind walks through.
A old one, perhaps, Ethel shrugged. She had never seen the animal; her grandmother had never shown it to her.
The elders exchanged glances. The following day a composed doctor arrived at their cottage.
Somethings amiss with the old lady, he declared.
Obviously, Victor snapped, patting his thighs, otherwise wed have called you sooner! The doctor studied him, then turned to Victors wife, Eleanor.
Its agerelated, he said flatly. I see no serious abnormalities. What are the symptoms?
She stopped telling me when to make lunch and supper! Shes been poking her nose into everything, insisting my hands arent right, and now she wont even step into the kitchen, Eleanor said in a hollow voice, herself now a grandmother.
At the familydoctor conference they judged this a grave omen. Exhausted by worry, they lay down as if they might sink into the earth itself.
That night Victor awoke to the familiar shuffling of slippers, but this time the sound did not demand a swift rise for breakfast or work.
Mum? he whispered, stepping into the hallway.
A raspy reply drifted from the darkness. Yes?
Whats the matter?
She sounded halfamused. Im thinking, while youre still asleep, Ill slip off on a date with Mike Yates. Im off to the loowhere else would I be? It seemed the old woman was finally pulling herself together.
Victor flicked on the kitchen light, set the kettle boiling, and hunched over the table, clutching his head. Starved? the grandmother called from the hallway, eyeing him.
Im waiting for you. What was that, Mum?
Margaret shuffled to the table. Ive been holed up in my room for five days, she began, when a pigeon smashed into the windowbang! I took it as a death omen. I lay down, waiting for the day, then the second, the third, and now I wake in the dead of night wondering, Should that omen have gone chasing the fae in the meadow, so I could have burned my life away under the sheets? Bring me tea, make it strong and hot. Three days with you, son, weve barely spoken; well have to make up for it.
Victor finally drifted to sleep just after half past five in the morning, while Margaret remained in the kitchen, determined to see breakfast through herselfthere was no other way, for those palehanded children would not be fed properly otherwise.
