CHAFING UNDER the frustrations and delays, Ariane worried about what her absence might make my grandfather think. She hated the idea of his supposing even for a moment that she would let him down, or that there was anything else that might seem more important to her than being there, that there could be any other interest that would distract her enough to make her late coming to help him. She wanted to call Grandfather to let him know why she was late and assure him that she would be there, but phone calls weren’t allowed, since they would shatter the illusion, and Grandfather had smothered the phone with a pillow, tied with cord, so that it wouldn’t make a recognizable sound, just a muffled tapping, barely audible. He had wanted to take the phone out completely, but we dissuaded him. He would have to have it, we told him, in an emergency, and we knew what we meant by that, and so did he.
It was late afternoon. Ariane ran along the road beside the river and turned the corner onto Sinkhole Lane, and she could see Grandfather, as soon as she turned the corner, standing in the window of the upstairs bedroom. When she reached the side yard and knew that he could see her, she put on a performance for him, to show him how frustrated and annoyed she felt: she let her shoulders drop, waggled her head slowly from side to side, rolled her eyes, raised them to the heavens, knocked her knees together and turned her toes inward, frowned, shrugged, and then grinned, because for all its annoyances and frustrations her day had given her stories to tell that would lift his spirits and might even make him laugh.
Grandfather shook his head, once, ever so slightly, then let it drop, let his chin rest on his chest, and leaned against the window frame.
Ariane drew a sharp, involuntary breath and ran toward the house.
[to be continued]
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