squinted out the window beside her. The sun was shining. Had the sun been shining in Toronto? She couldn't remember.
"Winter's better for business, mind you. Who wants to walk when the slush is as high as your hubcaps, eh? Still, April's not so bad as long as we get a lot of rain. Let it rain, that's what I say. You going to be in Kingston long?”
"I don't know.”
"Visiting relatives?
"Yes." My Mother. She's dead.
Something in that single syllable convinced the cabbie his fare wasn't in the mood for conversation and that further questions might be better left unasked. Humming tunelessly, he left her to relative silence.
An attempt had been made to blend the formed concrete of the new Life Sciences Complex in with the older, limestone structures of the university, but it hadn't been entirely successful.
"Progress," the cabbie ventured, as Vicki opened the back door, his tongue loosened by a sizable tip.
"Still, the kids need more than a couple of Bunsen burners and a rack of test tubes to do meaningful research these days, eh?
Paper says some grad student took out a patent on a germ.”
Vicki, who'd handed him a twenty because it was the first bill she'd pulled out of her wallet, ignored him.
He shook his head as he watched her stride up the walk, back rigidly straight, overnight bag carried like a weapon, and decided against suggesting that she have a nice day.
"Mrs. Shaw? I'm Vicki Nelson . . .”
The tiny woman behind the desk leapt to her feet and held out both hands. "Oh, yes, of course you are. You poor dear, did you come all the way from Toronto?”
Vicki stepped back but couldn't avoid having her right hand clutched and wrung. Before she could speak, Mrs. Shaw rushed on.
"Of course you did. I mean you were in Toronto when I called and now you're here." She laughed, a little embarrassed, and let go of Vicki's hand. "I'm sorry. It's just . . . well, your mother and I were friends, we'd worked together for almost five years and when she . . . I mean, when . . . It was just . . . such a terrible shock.”
Vicki stared down at the tears welling up in the older woman's eyes and realized to her horror that she didn't have the faintest idea of what to say. All the words of comfort she'd spoken over the years to help ease a thousand different types of grief, all the training, all the experience, she could find none of it.
"I'm sorry." Mrs. Shaw dug into her sleeve and pulled out a damp and wrinkled tissue. "It's just every time I think of it . . . I can't help . . .”
"Which is why I keep telling you, you should go home.”
Thankfully, Vicki turned to face the speaker, the calm, measured tone having dropped like a balm over her abraded nerves. The woman standing just inside the door to the office was in her mid-forties, short, solidly built, and wearing an almost practical combination of gray flannel pants and white, lace-edged blouse under her open lab coat. Her red-brown hair had been cut fashionably close, and the heavy frames of her glasses sat squarely on a nose well dusted with freckles. Her self-confidence was a tangible presence, even from across the room, and in spite of everything, Vicki felt herself responding.
Mrs. Shaw sniffed and replaced the tissue in her sleeve. "And I keep telling you, Dr. Burke, I'm not going home to spend the day alone, not when I can stay here, be surrounded by people, and actually accomplish something. Vicki felt small fingers close around her arm. "Dr. Burke, this is Marjory's daughter, Victoria.”
The department head's grip was warm and dry and she shook hands with an efficiency of motion that Vicki appreciated.
"We met briefly a few years ago, Ms. Nelson, just after your first citation, I believe. I was sorry to hear about the retinitis. It must have been difficult leaving a job you cared so deeply about. And now . . ." She spread her hands. "My condolences about your mother.”
"Thank you." There didn't seem to be much left to say.
"I
"Winter's better for business, mind you. Who wants to walk when the slush is as high as your hubcaps, eh? Still, April's not so bad as long as we get a lot of rain. Let it rain, that's what I say. You going to be in Kingston long?”
"I don't know.”
"Visiting relatives?
"Yes." My Mother. She's dead.
Something in that single syllable convinced the cabbie his fare wasn't in the mood for conversation and that further questions might be better left unasked. Humming tunelessly, he left her to relative silence.
An attempt had been made to blend the formed concrete of the new Life Sciences Complex in with the older, limestone structures of the university, but it hadn't been entirely successful.
"Progress," the cabbie ventured, as Vicki opened the back door, his tongue loosened by a sizable tip.
"Still, the kids need more than a couple of Bunsen burners and a rack of test tubes to do meaningful research these days, eh?
Paper says some grad student took out a patent on a germ.”
Vicki, who'd handed him a twenty because it was the first bill she'd pulled out of her wallet, ignored him.
He shook his head as he watched her stride up the walk, back rigidly straight, overnight bag carried like a weapon, and decided against suggesting that she have a nice day.
"Mrs. Shaw? I'm Vicki Nelson . . .”
The tiny woman behind the desk leapt to her feet and held out both hands. "Oh, yes, of course you are. You poor dear, did you come all the way from Toronto?”
Vicki stepped back but couldn't avoid having her right hand clutched and wrung. Before she could speak, Mrs. Shaw rushed on.
"Of course you did. I mean you were in Toronto when I called and now you're here." She laughed, a little embarrassed, and let go of Vicki's hand. "I'm sorry. It's just . . . well, your mother and I were friends, we'd worked together for almost five years and when she . . . I mean, when . . . It was just . . . such a terrible shock.”
Vicki stared down at the tears welling up in the older woman's eyes and realized to her horror that she didn't have the faintest idea of what to say. All the words of comfort she'd spoken over the years to help ease a thousand different types of grief, all the training, all the experience, she could find none of it.
"I'm sorry." Mrs. Shaw dug into her sleeve and pulled out a damp and wrinkled tissue. "It's just every time I think of it . . . I can't help . . .”
"Which is why I keep telling you, you should go home.”
Thankfully, Vicki turned to face the speaker, the calm, measured tone having dropped like a balm over her abraded nerves. The woman standing just inside the door to the office was in her mid-forties, short, solidly built, and wearing an almost practical combination of gray flannel pants and white, lace-edged blouse under her open lab coat. Her red-brown hair had been cut fashionably close, and the heavy frames of her glasses sat squarely on a nose well dusted with freckles. Her self-confidence was a tangible presence, even from across the room, and in spite of everything, Vicki felt herself responding.
Mrs. Shaw sniffed and replaced the tissue in her sleeve. "And I keep telling you, Dr. Burke, I'm not going home to spend the day alone, not when I can stay here, be surrounded by people, and actually accomplish something. Vicki felt small fingers close around her arm. "Dr. Burke, this is Marjory's daughter, Victoria.”
The department head's grip was warm and dry and she shook hands with an efficiency of motion that Vicki appreciated.
"We met briefly a few years ago, Ms. Nelson, just after your first citation, I believe. I was sorry to hear about the retinitis. It must have been difficult leaving a job you cared so deeply about. And now . . ." She spread her hands. "My condolences about your mother.”
"Thank you." There didn't seem to be much left to say.
"I
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