One Hundred Years of Marriage Read Online Free PDF Page A

“It isn’t rare, is it, your blood, Alice dear?”
    “My blood?” Mama blurted and stared between Mrs. Pryor and Mrs. Plottle as though at a third guest. “It’s common as grass, but poison! I’ve poisoned my whole family.”
    The front door opened and closed. Oh, God, let this be some rescue!
    Olivia appeared in the bedroom doorway and, seeing who I had let in, frowned at me. “Well, hello everyone,” she said brightly. Mama tried to sit up for Olivia who was in white shorts and held her tennis racket casually at her side. Across her rosy forehead sweat sealed some strands of her blond hair. She glowed in the sick room. I sensed a slight tremor between the visitors. Both women turned to stare at Olivia.
    Mrs. Pryor straightened her shoulders and cleared her throat. “Olivia? Tennis?”
    “Yes. I’ve been out playing tennis,” my sister said, not giving an inch. Mrs. Pryor eyed Olivia’s slim, tanned legs. Olivia strode across the room and shook hands. She loved their disapproval and, parking her tennis racket against her hip began to talk about this morning’s game. Hooray, Olivia, I thought, we are not all dead.
    I watched Mrs. Pryor give a nod to Mrs. Plottle to collect her vote, then she said, “Don’t you think you’re needed here at home, Olivia?”
    “Oh no,” Mother cried. “We need her to play tennis. It helps.”
    Mrs. Pryor returned her attention to Mama. “Now dear, I never heard of poison blood.” She reached for Mama’s hand.
    “It’s clotted,” Mama wailed, pulling her hand away. “But that’s better than bleeding in public, isn’t it?” She looked at me for the answer. I didn’t speak, and she covered her face with the sheet.
    “I know you’re suffering, honey,” Mrs. Pryor said, “just like your dear mother all those years, continuing to paint china.”
    “My father was a n’er do well!” Mama croaked from under the sheet. I’d never heard her use that term in regard to Grandpa Dan, and I opened my mouth to say something to cover the silence, but Mrs. Pryor spoke first.
    “Now, you know your dear father took care of her all those years.”
    “Yes,” Mama’s voice through the sheet was muffled, “never spoke a word of anger, either of them.”
    “And you have a wonderful, steady husband, too,” Mrs. Pryor cooed.
    Just then Ernest must have moved the canoe because there was a creaking from above. Mama peeked out from the sheet, and we all looked toward the ceiling. The visitors exchanged looks. Perhaps this girl has another relative in the attic.
    “It’s time for Mama to take her...”
    “What is she taking?” Mrs. Pryor turned to ask.
    Mama sat up and sobbed, “Lithium! Tell everyone.”
    “Oh, no,” Mrs. Plottle cried, seizing her opportunity to make a contribution. “Isn’t that the one that makes a woman grow a beard?”
    Mama moaned and bowed her head. I pictured myself taking Mrs. Plottle by the throat, but at that moment, Ernest dropped something sharp between the rafters that pierced the ceiling plaster. A fine shower of white dust poured through the sunlight and onto Mother’s head. The effect was ethereal. She sat up blinking and gasping as though called to attention by God. The church visitors were silent although Mrs. Pryor’s mouth kept working as she gaped.
    “We’d like to be alone now, ladies,” I intoned, and the visitors flapped about for a moment, gathering their purses and adjusting their hats, then rushed away.
    Mama came to supper in the dining room that night. Right after the blessing The General made his pre-speech clearing of the throat and announced, “The ventilation in this house is very poor. I believe all our problems can be solved with an attic fan. We’ll have to cut a huge hole under the eave at the back of the house in order to install it. And, by the way, Ernest,” he looked his only son in the eye, “that would be a golden opportunity for you and me to slide the canoe down into the back yard.”
    There was