She sat in her bedroom in the rear of Agnes's house, drapes closed, door shut and locked, the bed made, all her clothes put away. When she'd moved into the house, Agnes had given her a plush armchair and nightstand. She kept these by the back window for its view of the sidewalk and Philadelphia's oak trees, but these days she kept everything shut. She needed it that way. Victoria stared into space, nothing to read, nothing to sew, no one to talk to. Agnes went about the house downstairs, cooking meals for the children, dusting and cleaning the house. How she did it, Victoria had no idea.
Today Victoria could hear the pitter-pat of her hard soles on the wood floors above her. Grace and Harold's bedrooms were on the third floor, and little Harold right above Victoria. Her grandson had come down with scarlet fever three days ago and Agnes played nursemaid to the 8-year old boy. Poor little Harold, a fever of 102 and nothing to do but lie in bed and listen to Grace read "Johnny Tremain" to him. He hated novels and he didn't especially like his big sister. But she read to him nonetheless. And Agnes, who seemed too happy and carefree these days, diverted her thoughts from the abyss to taking care of her son.
Victoria remembered years ago when Norman and Neil had various illnesses in their house. All gone now. The house, lost to the Depression almost a dozen years ago. Cornelius, dead for three years. The family's general store, sold seven years ago. Neil, married and living in Doylestown with his nasty Bavarian wife. Victoria could barely bring herself to say her name, even if she was mother to three grandsons. And Norman -- the very thought sent her into a crying tailspin, Norman -- dead now six weeks, killed in that London bombing raid. How could Agnes go on, paying any attention to Grace and Harold, cooking, cleaning, going about her life, when everything had come to a screeching halt the morning the priest had walked up and knocked on the door?
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