Free Another You by Ann Beattie Page A

that Yardley soap you brought last time. At my age, I’m not going to wash with little shards of soap anymore. It’s not like we’re still back in the days when all of America was told to ‘Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without.’ Of course, they tell you whatever they want to tell you. Look at the so-called gas crisis, not so many years back.”
    Sonja could not be in Evie’s room long without feeling trapped, and Evie knew it, so she asked her to do things for her: straighten the clothes on the hangers; unwrap new soap. When Sonja finished, it was always her cue to leave—Evie expected it and acted as grateful as if she’d served her all morning.
    Downstairs, though she had forgotten to sign in, Sonja signed out. Meal trays were being wheeled onto the elevators for the patients who ate in their rooms instead of going to the common room. The sausage woman was standing by the elevators, joking with one of the men pushing the carts. She waved to Sonja to acknowledge her leaving, but did not return to the desk. Her task was left unfinished at the computer; fish swam across the screen as the machine awaited her return. The smell of gardenia was strong in the air, an oppressive smell of near-cloying sweetness that stuck in her nose as she stood in front of the automatic door and emerged into the suddenly much colder day, the sun having disappeared behind clouds, the snow as discolored as candle wax rubbed between dirty fingers.
    As she started the car and backed out, she had a sudden memory of the children circling. She heard again the chanted poem and wondered whether it would have amused or dismayed Marshall—Marshall with his love of Yeats and Pound and Shakespeare’s sonnets. Though she did not always know his thoughts, she usually knew which issues he was thinking about, and, after so many years, she could formulate arguments for or against, which—to tell the truth—she often invoked not as a matter of principle but to get a discussion going. As winter wore on, Marshall went into his own form of hibernation. He could become as silent as drifted snow.
    Martine, dear:
    A quick note to ask that you do me a couple of favors. I enclose E. Bedell’s business card and wish you would call and say it would be better for him to visit in late June, when some fellow is coming from Yale to fund-raise, so by joining our forces we might escape paying through the nose. He will already know what this is all about. I believe he will be in Stonington, but someone should answer at any of the numbers .
    Also, the owner of Heatherfields has told me there is a slight possibility of getting some trees planted before the summer is over—you would think they’d try harder to please in this bad economy, but they’re as vague as ever. The other favor is that Alice has taken quite a dislike to Mr. Perry’s painting in our bedroom, and though it hurts me to part with it, I think if it could be taken down for the present and put in another room, that would make her happier. I try to walk the line about what is an indulgence of Alice and what is simply common courtesy. I suspect I am overreacting to her overreaction, but if you would put it in my study—just lean it against the wall, I mean—I’d appreciate that .
    Alice firmly refuses to phone Dr. St. Vance, whom she formerly thought quite brilliant and helpful, and I am wondering if I would be asking too much to put you up to calling his office and letting him know she will soon be returning to Maine. He is so tactful, he may wish to phone to welcome her, or something like that, and I feel sure that when she hears his voice her resolve will change. If this is an imposition, do nothing and I will try to handle it when I arrive. I suppose this is going behind Alice’s back, but she still seems very sad to me, quite irrespective of circumstance, and I know that previously you shared my belief that … oh, I am lecturing you, and twisting your arm besides. Do what you think