Anita Witt spun the truck's steering wheel, rounding the building's corner, skidding to a stop. She climbed the loading dock steps, then turned her face to the rising sun, murmuring a supplication in its radiance, asking forgiveness for Joe and grace for Lucretia's soul.
Hurrying, she keyed open the loading dock door, stepped into the hall, then headed to her office. She hung up her parka, then changed from boots to shoes. She tissued away a winter tear and took a makeup kit and a mirror from her desk. Gazing into the mirror, she searched only vainly for her elegant lines, the oceanic depth of her eyes, the shifting poetry of her expressions, the storms of her passion, and the rapture of her fertility.
My youth is gone; I announced my retirement six months ago. This Friday coming is my final day on the job. I've always dreamed of having a retirement party, crepe paper, and balloons. People wish me good luck.
She pulled a mascara brush out of its tube, touched up her lashes, then went to the kitchen, where she threw on the light switches. The sodium banks flickered. She walked the brick tiles, powering the appliances: mixers and warming ovens, steam tables, and a soup cauldron.
A delivery truck backed up to the loading dock. The driver threw up the rolling tailgate, then hauled premade lunches into the kitchen. He called Anita's name.
"I'm in the stockroom, taking inventory."
"How's my favorite redhead?" he asked, peering around the stockroom door.
"I'm ok, Childs. How are you?"
"Well, you know, they changed my route again. I wish my bosses would make up their minds for once."
"Heh, I wouldn't hold my breath. How's your wife?"
"She hasn't left me yet."
"Would you give her my best? She's such a gentle soul."
"You have my promise," Childs said.
A moment passed.
"Is there something wrong, Anita?"
"It's that bad, huh? I guess it shows. I'm scared about Pups. She's sick. I have an appointment for her with the veterinarian. I don't know what I'll tell Joe if it's bad news. He doesn't understand things. He doesn't know why he's in prison, and they gave him thirty years. Oh well, oh well." Her hands trembled.
"Jesus, Anita, I'm sorry."
"I shouldn't bother you. You've got your routes to finish."
"Hell, the deliveries can wait a few minutes. Let me help you put up some of this stock."
"You'd keep me company for a minute? Just a little bit is all. That would be nice."
The part-time kitchen employees arrived. They hung up their coats and punched their timecards.
Anita walked into the cafeteria and looked through the windows. School buses pulled up in a big circle. Children disembarked, breathing frosty clouds while filing steadily into the main entrance. Sparkling sheets of ice covered the courtyard's surfaces. She flinched, seeing Mack, the head custodian, lose his footing and fall on a wheelchair ramp.
She headed back to her office, grabbed the inventory sheets, then started down a locker-lined hallway to the school's main office.
Sissy, the school's receptionist, sat at her desk. "I almost broke my ass this morning," she said.
"It's bad out there."
"Bad? That's good. Mack's got no ice melt because he used up his budget on a fancy floor burnisher. That's what's bad. We can all thank Mack if somebody gets hurt."
"I don't think about blame, Sissy. It's disheartening."
As Anita left the office, she felt Sissy's eyes following her. Yes, I'm old. Have a good look. But I was young once and beautiful.
Anita was born in the Michigan farmhouse that her grandparents built. She had had her bedroom upstairs with a north-facing window she opened for the fragrance of conifers and the chill of snowflakes. She could see first across the family's pumpkin field for a half-mile from the sill, then past the run-down cemetery where her father lay buried--a shipyard accident. Frost heave had tumbled his headstone. Anita dreamed of the day she'd transform the settling grave into a stately mausoleum with marble columns, gravel pathways, and strong iron fences. Beyond her father's resting place lay a vast temperate forest.
She'd had no siblings. Anita and her mother, Trish, shouldered the weight of their farm alone.
In winter, they repaired the farm's equipment. In early spring, they disk-plowed the forty-acre field. Afterward, they switched from plow to cultipacker and made the seedbed. Next, they calibrated the seed drill for planting depth and seed type. Trish backed an International Farmall to the drill while Anita signaled directions. With the hitch in place, Anita dropped the pins, and Trish hooked up the hydraulics. Finally, they cleared irrigation ditches and culverts so that, as the headgate opened, water could flow to the flood pipes. Fall was the pumpkin harvest, and they prepared the field for winter rye. They maintained a bee aviary for pollination and the extra income it provided.
Trish was an instinctive woman; austere and exacting, her self-possession guided her excellent posture, steady and straight. She home-schooled her daughter and assigned her farm duties, often asking Anita to repeat her instructions for clarity. But Trish had more than a simple reserve. The community regarded her as a sensible woman with a lighthearted laugh that invited others to join her high spirits. Trish gave the best of herself to her daughter, though. She loved Anita dearly and sympathetically. She also understood her daughter's need for something more than a mother's companionship.
In the summer of Anita's thirteenth year, Trish set up a honey booth at a nearby farmer's market and, throughout that summer, became acquainted with a couple nationally recognized for excellence in horse breeding. Alex and Elaine Wellington's estate lay just two miles south of Trish's property. The couple became regular shoppers at Trish's booth, often lingering for small talk. On one occasion, Elaine Wellington wrote her phone number on paper. She handed it to Trish, saying, "I know an introspective woman when I meet one. Won't you call sometime?"
"We've got a daughter, too," Alex said. "Her name is Lucretia. She's got moxie."
"Moxie indeed, how delightful," Trish answered, smiling charitably. "I've heard it said that dull children never quite recover from the condition. What age is she?"
