Comfort Me With Apples(4)

Slowly, as if underwater, as if someone else has been given run of her limbs, Sophia unties her own hair and begins to comb it with the great bone brush.

Tears float into the crescents of her eyes, and she does not know why.





IDARED



8.??The front and back yards are to be used for leisure and ornamentation only. Flowers and hedges are acceptable if well-maintained and not allowed to obstruct sight lines into the interior of the property in order to ensure that all activity remains clearly visible from outside the home. No vegetable plantings or other agricultural activity is permitted.

9.??It is forbidden to construct outbuildings for the purposes of industry such as beekeeping, the milling of grain or the tanning of hides, beermaking, soapmaking, cheesemaking, pottery, weaving, small vehicle repair, dancing, or other.





EMPIRE



Mrs. Lyon lounges grandly on her long green sofa. Her broad, powerful hips press into the plush as she stirs her tea with deliberate slowness. Mrs. Fische has flopped casually onto the floor, her silver hair floating free of any attempt to confine it, relishing her fourth cup. Mrs. Minke perches nervously on an embroidered stool, tapping her teaspoon against the saucer in a quick, staccato rhythm like an overwound clock. The three hostess gifts lie unopened before them on Mrs. Lyon’s yellow wicker coffee table.

“I’m sure I’ve no idea what you mean,” Mrs. Lyon says silkily. She yawns, her pink tongue showing in her pretty mouth. Sophia blushes at such an intimate sight.

“A hairbrush, you say?” bubbles Mrs. Fische. “Nothing so odd about that.”

Mrs. Minke sets her teaspoon down and picks it up again. Her sleek brown hair perfectly frames her small, pert face. “You must have so many hairbrushes, Sophie, darling,” she chirps brightly. “With that great slap of a man of yours spoiling you so! That’s all it is. You’ve got so many luxurious things you can’t keep track of them all! We should all have such problems!”

Sophia frowns doubtfully.

“The simplest explanation, really,” Mrs. Fische reassures her, and reaches for the teapot for a fifth cup.

“Slow down, you guppy, you’ll slurp me out of house and home. I shall have to make another pot already.” Mrs. Lyon takes her teapot to the kitchen to put another kettle on.

“It’s so delicious, I can hardly help myself,” Mrs. Fische burbles happily. “It’s not my fault you make the Lord’s own pot! Mrs. Bea’s blend, if I’m not mistaken?”

“Indeed.” Mrs. Lyon nods with pleasure as she returns with a fresh, gleaming tray. It is so nice to have nice things, after all. “A new recipe, just harvested from the community gardens. Something with apple blossoms, I think, I wasn’t really listening. You know how Mrs. Bea will go on if you let her.”

The sunlight turns the china to fire as Mrs. Lyon pours. The pattern glows incandescent—slim gazelles and fat sheep prancing through interlocking curls of long, braided grass.

“But the lock of hair, you see,” Sophia protests weakly.

She hates to contradict anyone. Especially since she is quite a ways younger than her teatime companions, especially Mrs. Fische. They know so much more than she does, about so many things. Silver hair, Mrs. F always says, is the medal won by wisdom. Sophia touches her curls self-consciously and wonders if she will get any silver of her own. She doubts it is possible. Not for such a silly little head and a silly little heart.

“I’m not at all sure what you’re trying to say, dear,” snaps Mrs. Minke irritably. Her dark eyes appraise Sophia up and down. “Do you think he’s been … disloyal to you? Is that it?”

“I don’t know!” Sophia says helplessly. She knows she oughtn’t. What will this do to the widening of Mrs. Moray’s eyes? But she’s so afraid. It dribbles out of her like blood. “Yesterday I could never imagine it. But today? And I can’t help but think he’s away so often with work … how am I to know what goes on when we’re apart?”

“But with who, darling?” Mrs. Fische tuts, looming greedily over the new pot of tea. “Old Mrs. Elke and Mrs. Hounde down at the farmer’s market? With those waistlines?” The other ladies laugh indulgently. “Perhaps Mrs. Hart, with her spots and nervous disposition? Or Mrs. Marten and her irresistible furry upper lip?” A reluctant smile begins to pull at Sophia’s rosy lips. In the friendly air of Mrs. Lyon’s sitting room, it really does seem so foolish.

“One of us?” Mrs. Minke squeals. “You don’t think your beau is gallivanting around with one of us, do you? Oh, you couldn’t. Just try to imagine it! Pawing at Mrs. L! Flip-flapping against old Mrs. F? Rolling around in the grass with me? You can’t. It’s too ridiculous! Who could compare with you, Sophie? You’re so perfectly lovely and perfectly good and perfectly sweet as a perfect orange. Everyone knows it. Don’t get your soft little neck twisted. As far as that man can see, you’re the only woman in the world.”

“As far as anyone can see. I’ve caught Mr. Lyon stealing a glance or three, I don’t mind telling you.” Mrs. Lyon rolls her eyes and tosses her thick, dark golden hair gaily.

“Oh, nonsense!” Sophia cries out, her face burning red.

“It’s true! Oh, pish-posh, it’s no shadow on my grass. He wouldn’t dare. I’d eat his head! But he gets such a hollow look in his big lazy eyes when he sees you coming up the walk without your fat slice of man at your side. I know that look. We all know it. The look of the hunt. Oh, I remember when he looked at me that way!”