LITMIR.BIZ

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in the spare bedroom. She wondered if Nowell’s grandmother had been planning to move and had begun to pack. Intricate patterns of spider webs decorated the corners of the attic and trailed between awnings like delicate suspension bridges. As Vivian walked, dust rose from the floor and fluttered back down.

      The triangular windows let the morning sun through; the rays picked up these dust particles and held them in spirals and sheets. Underneath was a window seat. She cleaned it with a rag and sat down. The seat was hard and small, child-sized. Vivian swiveled and saw the red truck in the driveway. At a short distance, the road curved and disappeared over a hill. A few miles beyond that lay the town.

      ‘Are you alright up there?’ Nowell called, his voice muffled from below.

      ‘This floor will look great after it’s cleaned and polished,’ she called back.

      ‘I bet nobody’s been up there for years,’ he said. ‘Be careful.’

      In the far corner sat a large wooden bureau, its purplish color muted by a thick layer of dust. A black vinyl garment bag hung from the back. Vivian walked over and unzipped it. Inside, a garment of dark blue fabric was covered in plastic wrap. Next to that, three dress shirts in white and pale blue. More old clothes, she thought. A brass coat rack, tarnished and dented, stood in front of the bureau. Next to that was a small wire cage, a house for a bird but now choked with spider webs. Clearing the attic would be a big job, one that she resolved to leave for later.

      The first days at the house passed quickly. Vivian conducted a survey of sorts, working her way from room to room, making lists. In the afternoons, she sometimes pulled a rusty lawn chair from the shed and took some sun in the front yard. She had first tried sitting in the back, where she could have a view of the trees, but the grass was too high; it scratched her between the canvas slats of the chair. Also, biting bugs swarmed, jumped and hid in the tall grass. Nowell had promised to mow the lawn as soon as he reached a good stopping point in his work.

      The world seemed to turn more slowly at the house. Lazy afternoons followed bright, sharp mornings filled with bird noises, clear sky, and country smells of warm grass and damp places. At mid-day the air became hazy and heavy and the birds quieted for a siesta. The house was shady then, a cool respite before the sun began its descent and beamed orange through the back windows. It was a lazy time. In the evenings, Vivian’s energy level peaked again and her sense of hearing sharpened. She heard crickets under the house and outside, the green, thick-veined leaves flapping, one against the other in the breeze. When a small branch snapped and fell, the other branches gently guided its descent.

      In the week since her arrival she hadn’t accomplished much with the house, but she didn’t feel guilty. After all, she’d waived her annual vacation from the water management agency because Nowell had said the extra money would help. She deserved to take it easy after having worked straight through the last eight months.

      So she was spending another afternoon relaxing. That morning, she had unpacked some boxes, mostly trash: used paperback romances, sewing things and scraps of fabric, an entire box of plastic silverware, plates and cups. She found it strange, going through someone’s belongings, without knowing the person or their reasons for keeping things. Now she lay on her stomach in the front yard with her arms at her sides, feeling the sun bake her back. Eventually she sat up to look at a magazine. The heat felt good on her skin and caused a thin, sparkly layer of sweat to bead between her breasts.

      She heard the low hum of a car approaching. The postman was early, she thought. It was just after one o’clock and he usually arrived closer to three. Vivian leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, pushing the magazine underneath her leg so it wouldn’t fall. The car’s engine grew louder until she heard dirt crunching under the tires. She looked up as a long, metallic-green car rolled up the driveway. The postman never came up the driveway, only stopped his little truck at the silver mailbox on the main road.

      The driver’s door opened and a woman got out. ‘Hello,’ she called cheerily. ‘Don’t get up, now. I’m nobody important.’

      Vivian squinted up at her. She was tall, older than Vivian. Maybe almost forty. Over a pair of dark lavender pants hung a long blue t-shirt, decorated with a pattern of hearts and flowers. She walked up the driveway and stood towering over Vivian.

      ‘I’m Katherine Wilton,’ she said. ‘I knew Betty, uh, Mrs Gardiner.’

      Vivian extended her hand. ‘I’m Vivian Gardiner. Mrs Gardiner was my husband’s grandmother.’

      ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I met your husband at the grocery store a couple weeks back.’ Katherine Wilton’s voice was pleasant, almost musical. ‘I almost knocked a chicken out of his arms, wasn’t paying attention to where I was going. I get distracted by the displays in the deli.’

      ‘That deli is famous,’ Vivian said. ‘My husband and his brother couldn’t say enough about it. I’ll have to see it for myself soon.’

      Katherine Wilton laughed again, crossing her arms over the flowers on her ample chest. ‘The employees are all women with too much time on their hands, as far as I’m concerned. Anybody who has time to make a pie from scratch has got their priorities all messed up.’ She dropped her key-ring into a tan leather handbag. ‘Your husband told me you were arriving. I thought I’d see how you’re getting on.’

      ‘That’s really nice of you,’ Vivian said. ‘I just got in a week ago. I haven’t even left the house yet.’

      ‘I see you’re taking it easy. Good for you. City living gets hectic, I suppose.’

      Vivian flushed, embarrassed at being caught doing nothing. ‘Yes, I’ve been lazy.’

      ‘Nonsense! You’re spending quality time, as they say, rejuvenating mind and body.’

      ‘That’s a nice way of saying it. Would you like to come inside for something to drink, Mrs Wilton?’

      ‘Only if you call me Katherine. ‘Mrs Wilton’ always makes me think of my mother-in-law, and the less I think of her the better.’

      Vivian laughed and stood up. The magazine stuck to the back of her thigh for a moment then fell to the ground between their feet.

      Katherine scooped it up before Vivian could. ‘That magazine’s left an imprint on your leg,’ she said.

      ‘What, where?’ Vivian twisted her hips, trying to find the spot where the magazine had stuck.

      ‘It’s kind of weird, really, a little face right on your leg.’ Katherine covered her grin with a ring-adorned hand. Brassy gold and multi-colored gemstones flashed in the sunlight. ‘It looks like a tattoo, although I don’t know why you’d want some supermodel’s face on your thigh.’

      Vivian could make out only a small patch of color, reddish with some black. She studied the magazine page: an ad for hair coloring. She wrapped a towel around her waist and picked up her glass.

      Katherine leaned closer. ‘I have a tattoo from my wilder days.’

      ‘I always wanted one,’ Vivian said. ‘What’s yours?’

      ‘A black panther. Right here.’ She pointed to a spot just above her pelvic bone. ‘Nothing political intended. I just think big cats are so amazing. Believe it or not, I ran on the track team in high school. So that was it, speed and grace.’ She smiled. ‘It sounds stupid, but I never realized the implications of having a cat so close to … well, right there.’

      Vivian inadvertently opened her mouth.

      ‘It’s alright.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘My husband laughs about it all the time.’

      They stepped onto the porch.

      ‘What tattoo would you get?’ Katherine asked.

      Vivian paused. ‘A rose, I think. On my ankle.’

      ‘The ankle might not be a good choice. Too exposed, don’t you think?’

      ‘Well, I’d never do it anyway. Nowell wouldn’t

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