Mrs. Perkins knew how the last five minutes would pass, how they were unlike all the other minutes of each day, how they would drag on and on. She stood at the entrance to the hall with a dish towel over her shoulder and a hand on the doorway to support the rest of her body, which leaned slightly into it. Her other hand hung at her side and waited.
It was 3:10, and she knew this afternoon would be like every other afternoon. Yet her chest rose and fell as an inward excitement built up within her; she tried to control her breathing, and sweat beads gathered over her forehead. Her free hand rose and wiped her brow dry.
In five minutes, as the clock began to chirp, she would move through the hall, her one hand trailing so as to brush the picture frames with her fingertips, the other thrust into her apron pocket. She would step lightly over the wood floor to maintain the hush of the house, and it would only creak when she was a few paces from the front door. There was no one else to disturb, and yet the habit of keeping the house quiet in the afternoon seemed right.
She fought to hold off all other thoughts but the ones that sought out what was to come in the next few minutes, but today she could not.
Days before, her new neighbor had called on her as she finished her lunch of cucumbers and toast. She had brought her child. The mother -- what was her name, Mrs. Hannah? -- hadn’t said anything Mrs. Perkins felt it necessary to remember, or even listen to at the time, so she watched the child as he tried to walk from the sofa to the coffee table and back.
“I told Sam this is the nicest street we’ve lived on --” the boy gripped the sofa cushions with his hands so the fabric squeezed between his fingers; his weak legs bobbed and he made noises that brought Mrs. Perkins’s hand to her mouth to cover her smile -- “And how long have you lived on this block?”
Mrs. Perkins heard just enough of the question to answer and hide the fact that the child was more interesting than the conversation. “About ten years.” She had said it to the young mother there in her living room, but she could have been alone, speaking to herself.
The child fell on his way back to the sofa but only grunted and crawled to where he could pull himself up. Mrs. Perkins thought about offering him her finger, but her hand shook and she had to hold it close to her face in case she needed to hide her amusement.
“We’ve moved so many times,” the woman was saying.
“Um-hmm.” Mrs. Perkins’s eyes followed a ribbon of drool as it trailed from the child’s lips to his knee.
“Sam thinks this is the one, though. ‘I got a feeling about it this time.’ That’s what he said when he called me about the place we bought across the way.” She smiled absently.
Mrs. Perkins didn’t hear and rescued herself from the edge of embarrassment when she realized there had been another question she didn’t quite hear. “I’m sorry?” She looked at Mrs. Hannah.
“Do you have any children?” Mrs. Hannah’s youth came to the surface, shining in her innocent attempt to converse.
“No. We, I --” and they both had been saved by the child as Mrs. Perkins felt hotness rise to her face and Mrs. Hannah began to realize her mistake.
The child had placed his face on the edge of the coffee table each time he reached it, and this time, when he used the few teeth he had to bite it, his mother saw him. “Oh, I’m sorry!” And she had jumped from her seat and lifted him into her arms.
“No, it’s quite alright.” Mrs. Perkins mouthed her reply from that day, that last question still fresh, still cutting; it all felt close, like an exhaled breath just above the skin, even though she knew it was a memory from the previous week. She still stood with her feet in the kitchen pointed toward the front door. Her eyes searched the living room carpet, and she imagined the tooth mark the child had left on the coffee table. She found her hand no longer hung by her side but covered her mouth.
How the child had kicked and squirmed when his mother picked him up -- “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she had said, and it could have been an apology for the child or herself -- and Mrs. Perkins had stood up and waved her hand in the air, heavy as it was, to show it was nothing. They left shortly afterward, leaving Mrs. Perkins to restore her routine amidst the afternoon silence.
Yes, it had seemed right to keep the house quiet in the afternoon, even with Mr. Perkins gone and the need for quiet with him. From where she stood she could see the orange sunlight that came through the office and living room windows. He had liked to work in this light, and so she had made it her service to him, her gift, to make that time of day his own. It was the lesser gift. Lesser than the one they had hoped for, waited, and prayed for, but she gave it. She gave it fully.
Her hand fell back to its place at her side, smoothing her apron on its way.
She would step lightly through the hall, her one hand trailing so as to brush the picture frames, the ones with the two of them smiling when they were so young, and the ones that reminded her of the decades the two of them had spent together. She would step lightly and maybe stop at the last few, at the ones that were from years not so long past. Of the two of them -- she steadied her hand again and again -- of the two of them. Yes, the two --
What had Mrs. Hannah said as she stepped out the door? The moment rushed back to her and she was caught up in it. She resisted it at first, but then allowed its fullness to rest on her.
“Thank you, Mrs. Perkins, for having us. You have such a nice clean home. I hope we haven’t spoiled it.”
Mrs. Perkins smiled at the memory of it and repeated to the empty hall, “No, not at all. Not at all.”
The child’s sounds had continued in an echo that stretched into the present. They bounced off the floor to the ceiling and back.
“Well, thank you again,” she had said. “The afternoons get long.” And then they had left, the mother carrying her child so Mrs. Perkins could see one of his legs as it kicked at nothing all the way down the sidewalk.
When Mrs. Perkins came back fully to herself there in the kitchen, the corners of her mouth still turned up at the sound of the child’s shrieks resonating in her ears. Then she thought of the time. What of the final five minutes? Had the clock chirped? She gripped the doorjamb with both hands and leaned back into the kitchen.
3:18 -- it was 3:18, and her heart raced. She had to be on the porch, settled, with time to spare, so as to seem --
Mrs. Perkins rushed madly through the hall, and she passed the frames and the orange light too quickly to touch or see either. The dish towel was still draped over her shoulder, and her hair had bounced out of the neat bun at the back of her head so she had to push the strays behind her ears just before she opened the door. One more hurried breath and then she grabbed the knob and turned.
The birdseed! Her cheeks burned at the thought of forgetting it. The bag leaned against the wall, its weight bulging over like a full stomach. It made a hushed falling sound in her arms.
And then the door was open, and left open, and Mrs. Perkins sat and ran her hands over her hair and apron one more time as her eyes checked and checked the street corner. She realized the dish towel was still on her -- it hung at the bend in her arm now. She leaped up and reached for the door, saw it was open, and threw the towel through and slammed the door. Inside, the towel came to rest in a pool of rusted light.
She sat and huffed, and her heart pushed at the veins in her wrists and neck. The heavy bag on her legs came to rest. On the front of the bag was a bright red cardinal; she pointed it toward the street.
Then they came. There were usually two of them, sometimes three, but they made enough noise for a dozen. Mrs. Perkins watched from the porch, where she sat at attention with her hands on her knees. Today they argued over the finer points of boyhood honor and yanked each other’s backpack strings, trying to make the other fall between their rhetoric.
“Hey!” The smaller one kicked his brother’s foot back and across his opposite leg and ran laughing until he was tackled from behind right on Mrs. Perkins’s lawn. They fought and laughed, both their faces red, but stopped suddenly when they felt her eyes on them.
“Oh, sorry Mrs. Perkins!” They whispered insults at one another as they untangled themselves. “Sorry. Did we scare the birds?”
The two of them stood there side by side and watched Mrs. Perkins lift her hand to her temple. She stiffened, and wanted to say anything -- hello, I have cookies, play in my yard anytime, the birds will find food somewhere else -- anything. But before she could reply, before she could swallow the lump in her throat, they scurried down the walk, all the way wondering what kind of trouble they might be in later. She heard the older one say, “Now we’re in for it. She’s trying to feed the birds. Stay off her yard!” And he got one more shove in as they disappeared.
It was the weight of the bag that had cut into Mrs. Perkins’s circulation that brought her back and out of her thoughts. She heaved it up and, when inside, threw it back into its place. The birdseed hissed, not unlike sand moved by the wind, and slumped over on the floor.
Slowly, she closed the door, and the latch clicked and sounded loudly through the hall. Silence worked on her from behind, from the kitchen, from the closed doors of the empty bedrooms, from the waning light stretched thin from the living room windows. And with her head on the wall, and her hand still on the knob, two visions rose in her imagination: in an orange, molasses glow, she saw the brothers’ return from school, their lives and faces spreading onto her lawn and then down the street, and then the child’s fat, bare leg as it swayed in the thick light. Back and forth away down the block it kicked and swung, back and forth away.
It was 3:10, and she knew this afternoon would be like every other afternoon. Yet her chest rose and fell as an inward excitement built up within her; she tried to control her breathing, and sweat beads gathered over her forehead. Her free hand rose and wiped her brow dry.
In five minutes, as the clock began to chirp, she would move through the hall, her one hand trailing so as to brush the picture frames with her fingertips, the other thrust into her apron pocket. She would step lightly over the wood floor to maintain the hush of the house, and it would only creak when she was a few paces from the front door. There was no one else to disturb, and yet the habit of keeping the house quiet in the afternoon seemed right.
She fought to hold off all other thoughts but the ones that sought out what was to come in the next few minutes, but today she could not.
Days before, her new neighbor had called on her as she finished her lunch of cucumbers and toast. She had brought her child. The mother -- what was her name, Mrs. Hannah? -- hadn’t said anything Mrs. Perkins felt it necessary to remember, or even listen to at the time, so she watched the child as he tried to walk from the sofa to the coffee table and back.
“I told Sam this is the nicest street we’ve lived on --” the boy gripped the sofa cushions with his hands so the fabric squeezed between his fingers; his weak legs bobbed and he made noises that brought Mrs. Perkins’s hand to her mouth to cover her smile -- “And how long have you lived on this block?”
Mrs. Perkins heard just enough of the question to answer and hide the fact that the child was more interesting than the conversation. “About ten years.” She had said it to the young mother there in her living room, but she could have been alone, speaking to herself.
The child fell on his way back to the sofa but only grunted and crawled to where he could pull himself up. Mrs. Perkins thought about offering him her finger, but her hand shook and she had to hold it close to her face in case she needed to hide her amusement.
“We’ve moved so many times,” the woman was saying.
“Um-hmm.” Mrs. Perkins’s eyes followed a ribbon of drool as it trailed from the child’s lips to his knee.
“Sam thinks this is the one, though. ‘I got a feeling about it this time.’ That’s what he said when he called me about the place we bought across the way.” She smiled absently.
Mrs. Perkins didn’t hear and rescued herself from the edge of embarrassment when she realized there had been another question she didn’t quite hear. “I’m sorry?” She looked at Mrs. Hannah.
“Do you have any children?” Mrs. Hannah’s youth came to the surface, shining in her innocent attempt to converse.
“No. We, I --” and they both had been saved by the child as Mrs. Perkins felt hotness rise to her face and Mrs. Hannah began to realize her mistake.
The child had placed his face on the edge of the coffee table each time he reached it, and this time, when he used the few teeth he had to bite it, his mother saw him. “Oh, I’m sorry!” And she had jumped from her seat and lifted him into her arms.
“No, it’s quite alright.” Mrs. Perkins mouthed her reply from that day, that last question still fresh, still cutting; it all felt close, like an exhaled breath just above the skin, even though she knew it was a memory from the previous week. She still stood with her feet in the kitchen pointed toward the front door. Her eyes searched the living room carpet, and she imagined the tooth mark the child had left on the coffee table. She found her hand no longer hung by her side but covered her mouth.
How the child had kicked and squirmed when his mother picked him up -- “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she had said, and it could have been an apology for the child or herself -- and Mrs. Perkins had stood up and waved her hand in the air, heavy as it was, to show it was nothing. They left shortly afterward, leaving Mrs. Perkins to restore her routine amidst the afternoon silence.
Yes, it had seemed right to keep the house quiet in the afternoon, even with Mr. Perkins gone and the need for quiet with him. From where she stood she could see the orange sunlight that came through the office and living room windows. He had liked to work in this light, and so she had made it her service to him, her gift, to make that time of day his own. It was the lesser gift. Lesser than the one they had hoped for, waited, and prayed for, but she gave it. She gave it fully.
Her hand fell back to its place at her side, smoothing her apron on its way.
She would step lightly through the hall, her one hand trailing so as to brush the picture frames, the ones with the two of them smiling when they were so young, and the ones that reminded her of the decades the two of them had spent together. She would step lightly and maybe stop at the last few, at the ones that were from years not so long past. Of the two of them -- she steadied her hand again and again -- of the two of them. Yes, the two --
What had Mrs. Hannah said as she stepped out the door? The moment rushed back to her and she was caught up in it. She resisted it at first, but then allowed its fullness to rest on her.
“Thank you, Mrs. Perkins, for having us. You have such a nice clean home. I hope we haven’t spoiled it.”
Mrs. Perkins smiled at the memory of it and repeated to the empty hall, “No, not at all. Not at all.”
The child’s sounds had continued in an echo that stretched into the present. They bounced off the floor to the ceiling and back.
“Well, thank you again,” she had said. “The afternoons get long.” And then they had left, the mother carrying her child so Mrs. Perkins could see one of his legs as it kicked at nothing all the way down the sidewalk.
When Mrs. Perkins came back fully to herself there in the kitchen, the corners of her mouth still turned up at the sound of the child’s shrieks resonating in her ears. Then she thought of the time. What of the final five minutes? Had the clock chirped? She gripped the doorjamb with both hands and leaned back into the kitchen.
3:18 -- it was 3:18, and her heart raced. She had to be on the porch, settled, with time to spare, so as to seem --
Mrs. Perkins rushed madly through the hall, and she passed the frames and the orange light too quickly to touch or see either. The dish towel was still draped over her shoulder, and her hair had bounced out of the neat bun at the back of her head so she had to push the strays behind her ears just before she opened the door. One more hurried breath and then she grabbed the knob and turned.
The birdseed! Her cheeks burned at the thought of forgetting it. The bag leaned against the wall, its weight bulging over like a full stomach. It made a hushed falling sound in her arms.
And then the door was open, and left open, and Mrs. Perkins sat and ran her hands over her hair and apron one more time as her eyes checked and checked the street corner. She realized the dish towel was still on her -- it hung at the bend in her arm now. She leaped up and reached for the door, saw it was open, and threw the towel through and slammed the door. Inside, the towel came to rest in a pool of rusted light.
She sat and huffed, and her heart pushed at the veins in her wrists and neck. The heavy bag on her legs came to rest. On the front of the bag was a bright red cardinal; she pointed it toward the street.
Then they came. There were usually two of them, sometimes three, but they made enough noise for a dozen. Mrs. Perkins watched from the porch, where she sat at attention with her hands on her knees. Today they argued over the finer points of boyhood honor and yanked each other’s backpack strings, trying to make the other fall between their rhetoric.
“Hey!” The smaller one kicked his brother’s foot back and across his opposite leg and ran laughing until he was tackled from behind right on Mrs. Perkins’s lawn. They fought and laughed, both their faces red, but stopped suddenly when they felt her eyes on them.
“Oh, sorry Mrs. Perkins!” They whispered insults at one another as they untangled themselves. “Sorry. Did we scare the birds?”
The two of them stood there side by side and watched Mrs. Perkins lift her hand to her temple. She stiffened, and wanted to say anything -- hello, I have cookies, play in my yard anytime, the birds will find food somewhere else -- anything. But before she could reply, before she could swallow the lump in her throat, they scurried down the walk, all the way wondering what kind of trouble they might be in later. She heard the older one say, “Now we’re in for it. She’s trying to feed the birds. Stay off her yard!” And he got one more shove in as they disappeared.
It was the weight of the bag that had cut into Mrs. Perkins’s circulation that brought her back and out of her thoughts. She heaved it up and, when inside, threw it back into its place. The birdseed hissed, not unlike sand moved by the wind, and slumped over on the floor.
Slowly, she closed the door, and the latch clicked and sounded loudly through the hall. Silence worked on her from behind, from the kitchen, from the closed doors of the empty bedrooms, from the waning light stretched thin from the living room windows. And with her head on the wall, and her hand still on the knob, two visions rose in her imagination: in an orange, molasses glow, she saw the brothers’ return from school, their lives and faces spreading onto her lawn and then down the street, and then the child’s fat, bare leg as it swayed in the thick light. Back and forth away down the block it kicked and swung, back and forth away.
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