Victoria walked down the staircase to rest in the parlor. Thank heavens, she thought, Agnes and the children went to New York for the weekend. Ever since Norman was killed, Agnes had been pestering her to eat more, get out and about, walk, exercise, do something. But Agnes was only Norman’s wife. She was his mother. No one but a mother could ever know what it was like for your youngest child to die.
She walked to the window, a dreary December day. Why couldn’t it be ten degrees colder, then she’d be looking at a winter scene rather than this gray rain? Philadelphia had a strange beauty in the snow, but in the rain it was just an ordinary train town. Victoria tightened the robe about her. She’d sit here in the parlor with a cup of tea and put logs on the fire. That would make it manageable.
Agnes had forgotten to turn off the lights in the kitchen, too bright for Victoria. She turned them off. Why have any light at all? And then she looked in the refrigerator. All disorganized. So Victoria took everything out and reorganized, ended up throwing a lot away. And then she looked in the drawers and the cabinets – everything everywhere, no order to anything these days. So she took everything out of the cabinets, sorted dishes and glasses, spices and staples, and cleaned off the shelves. Put everything back in.
How long had it been? Two months since she’d been in this kitchen? After Norman died Victoria had stopped cooking for Agnes and the children. She loved her daughter-in-law, but this disorganization … she moaned out her exasperation.
She forgot about her tea, putting logs on the fire, sitting in the dark in the parlor. Victoria had to get back to work here.
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