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Louise thought of her early opinions of Delphie. A few decades could change people a great deal.
“Fine, then,” Delphie said gruffly, as Louise had known she would. “But just this once. For Emily.”
Louise touched her brush to the furrows of the garden on the canvas and put thoughts of contractors, failures, and heartbreak aside. “Yes. For Emily.”
ten
AVIS
APRIL 27
It was difficult, surrounded by dying bath suds and lukewarm water, to properly take notes on a book, but with effort, Avis kept her pencil steady enough to underline her favorite parts.
How to Read a Bookwas a masterpiece, and its author, Mortimer Adler, a genius. It made everything so simple: how to scan the pages for key ideas, an outline for taking notes, even four rules to determine the aim of a book. If all went well, she had determined to make it a future book club read, after Emily Dickinson. Who, she had to admit, defied the neat rules Adler set out for interpretation, but that was poetry for you.
Avis inhaled the scent of lavender—the bath salts had been a birthday present from Russell, along with roses and an apology for being a day late—and pictured the next book club meeting: herself, armed with strategies and observations, the others murmuring about how insightful she was, Miss Cavendish looking admiringly at her and saying,“Why, Avis, I never knew...”
And then the fire siren sounded, distant but shrill, slicing like a letter opener through the peaceful evening.
Avis sloshed to attention, only a quick reaction keepingHow to Read a Book from tumbling into the drink. “Russ, what is it?” she cried, throwing on her robe, dripping on the hallwayrug as she hurried toward the crackling sound of her husband’s radio program.
But she knew. They’d spotted an enemy plane. The newspapers said a kitchen table would do in place of a bomb shelter, but they hadn’t seen hers, with the narrow, stylish legs that would collapse if a concussion grenade fell within a block.
“We’re being bombed, aren’t we?” Her voice sounded thin and strained, even to her.
“Only an air raid drill, darling,” Russell soothed, standing from the depths of his armchair and snapping off the radio so only the blast of the fire siren remained. “Don’t you remember? They announced it in the paper.”
A drill. Then ... this wasn’t a real air raid. Avis leaned against the wall, the tips of her hair sending rivulets of water down her back to spot the linoleum as she tried to breathe deeply.
How had she forgotten? She’d been so careful in noting how many Emily Dickinson poems she’d need to read per day that she hadn’t even jotted down an air raid drill on the calendar.
Instead of running to close the curtains, Russell’s gaze went to her legs—still specked with soap scum and bathwater—and let out a low whistle. “Wowee, you’re looking good, missus. Going my way?”
She clutched the lapels of the robe to give herself some semblance of decency. “I’mgoingto prepare this house for an air raid.” Maybe a hair more snappish than necessary, but really, who had time for ogling when there was a war on?
She’d memorized the steps of “What to Do in an Air Raid.” The first was keep cool.
Well. Easier said than done.
Her fingers, at least, had stopped shaking as she switched off the table lamp, already pointed away from the windows per regulations. The blue signal meant all citizens had ten minutes to make the coast into a swath of darkness, providing no target for enemy planes.
Russell pulled the blackout drapes as she left to do the same in the bathroom and hall. The bedroom lamp was the last to go. Avis shivered, attempting to blot her wet hair with a hand towel beside her vanity. Their home, so cozy and comfortable only seconds ago, now stood darkened in shadow.
“There now.” Russell held a candle aloft as he shut the door behind himself, the glow giving his rounded face the wholesome look of a choirboy at a Christmas Eve concert. “All set. Let’s get into bed. Too late now to do much but sleep anyway.” He set the candle on the nightstand and put an arm around her, but Avis pulled away.
“Shouldn’t we shut off the furnace?”
That is what the “What to Do in an Air Raid” article had suggested, in case bombs started falling. They’d also recommended naming one family member the “home air raid warden,” in charge of memorizing all procedures.Mother makes the best, they’d wisely advised. Avis wasn’t that yet—though she hoped to be someday soon—but even the newsmen had the sense to know this was a woman’s job.
“I don’t think we need to take the drill that far.” A series of short blasts from the siren made her startle, and Russell reached for the lamp. “See? There’s the all clear.”
She gripped his arm. “No! That’s the red signal.” Didn’t he read the instructions? That meant the plane would be almost passing by, and drivers would need to park their cars and take cover.
Even though it was only the town’s fire siren—not the ghastly whining moan she’d heard in newsreels about the London Blitz—surrounded by darkness and the flickering shadows cast by the candle, it felt far more ominous. Avis shuddered and dove under their quilt, robe and all.
Collected Poems of Emily Dickinsonlay tauntingly on the bedside table. Maybe she should continue reading. After all, she still had twenty more poems left by her schedule to have the book completed by the next meeting.
The siren stopped. The planes, if they had been real, would be passing over now. She shuddered, pulling closer to Russell to feel his warmth, smell the faint traces of cologne still left after a long day, hear the steady beat of his heart. Hers was outpacing his by leagues.
