Arts
Sandra was worried about Mark. He’d told her about Clare Tannerman. There had been a shuttered look about him—no telling what was going on behind his eyes, when they looked like that. Then he’d gone out to clear some snow. Two hours later, he was still at it, out in the bitter cold: snow blowing, shoveling, scraping; driveway, porch, steps, sidewalks. She’d left him to it, thinking that it might be one of those things he found therapeutic. But when, finally, she heard him come in, she went downstairs to find him sitting rigidly at the kitchen table, stripped down to his long underwear and his long-sleeved T-shirt, staring at his hands. His hands and face still looked red with cold, but his T-shirt was soaked with sweat. “Mark,” she said. “Are you okay?” “No,” he sighed. “You’re not blaming yourself about Mrs. Tannerman, are you? You did everything you could for her.” “No, I’m not blaming myself. Not really. If I’d gone there sooner—but who knows? I didn’t do anything wrong. But I’m just so damned depressed. And,” he added, shamefacedly, “I’ve hurt my back.” She thought, Of course you’ve hurt your back, you big idiot! She said, “My poor dear man. Where does it hurt?” She made Mark shower, and change, and dress. It took a while, because he was in considerable pain and moving very tentatively. Then she eased him into her car and took him over to Hecate Holistic Health for a massage. He protested against this, but in vain. “It’ll be fine,” she reassured him. “And I’ll stay with you the whole time.” The massage did wonders for Mark. He was tense on the way in, but once on the massage table, he seemed resigned to whatever fate Eunice had in store for him. She kept the gloves on, and under her skillful hands, his resignation became relaxation, and eventually he simply dozed off. Sandra and Eunice left him under hot stones on the massage table and sat together on the sofa in the next room. “Tell me what happened to Mark,” said Eunice softly. “I loosened him up and adjusted his spine, but there’s more amiss than just shoveling, isn’t there?” Sandra told Eunice about their adventures of the previous day, and about the news Mark had received that morning. “I see,” said Eunice, nodding her head. “That fits. But don’t worry—he’ll bounce back, with your help. He just wants to save everyone, bless him.” Then she continued, more gravely: “But this sounds like the start of the ‘cold deaths’ Timi foresaw, doesn’t it?” “So it seems,” said Sandra. “And four more storms to go,” Eunice continued. “And it’s only just January. But, you know, I don’t feel the least bit oppressed by this hard winter, so far. It’s because I have something new to hope for, I guess.” She smiled. “Maybe Mark could use something to hope for as well?” “Oh, not you, too!” Sandra snapped. “Just leave it alone, will you?!” “What?” said Eunice. “Oh, I see. No, I was just going to suggest planning a vacation together, or something of that nature. I wasn’t advising you to marry him—or to have a child with him.” She laughed. “Now, if you were to ask my advice—but no, I won’t trespass there. I take it that people have been dropping hints?” “You could say that,” said Sandra, venting her annoyance. “It feels like people have been, not so much dropping hints, as launching them at me. And then yesterday, a very sweet crone from Mark’s church came right out and told me that I should marry him—that I should ‘have him,’ she said, as in ‘to have and to hold’ or something. She gave me some annoying observations to go with her advice, too. Annoyingly accurate observations. She’s such a dear lady, I couldn’t be mad at her, but it’s left me a little off balance.” She paused, and sighed, and smiled contritely at Eunice. “I’m sorry for snapping at you, sister,” she said. “Don’t worry about it,” said Eunice. “You’ll let me know if I can help?” “Yes. And thank you for waiting to be asked.” Sandra shook her head. “So: how are you doing?