No word about Mrs. Jamieson. Carla put the kettle on. Clark was humming to himself as he often did when he sat in front of the computer.
Sometimes he talked back to it. Bullshit, he would say, replying to some challenge. Or he would laughbut could not remember what the joke was, when she asked him afterwards.
Carla called, "Do you want tea?" and to her surprise he got up and came into the kitchen.
"So," he said. "So, Carla."
"So she phoned."
"Her Majesty. Queen Sylvia. She just got back."
"I didnt hear the car."
"I didnt ask you if you did."
"So what did she phone for?"
"She wants you to go and help her straighten up the house. Thats what she said. Tomorrow."
"What did you tell her?"
"I told her sure. But you better phone up and confirm."
Carla said, "I dont see why I have to, if you told her." She poured out their mugs of tea. "I cleaned up her house before she left. I dont see what there could be to do so soon."
"Maybe some coons got in and made a mess of it while she was gone. You never know."
"I dont have to phone her right this minute," she said. "I want to drink my tea and I want to have a shower."
"The sooner the better."
Carla took her tea into the bathroom, calling back, "We have to go to the laundromat. Even when the towels dry out they smell moldy."
"Were not changing the subject, Carla."
Even after shed got in the shower he stood outside the door and called to her.
"I am not going to let you off the hook, Carla."
She thought he might still be standing there when she came out, but he was back at the computer. She dressed as if she was going to townshe hoped that if they could get out of here, go to the laundromat, get a takeout at the cappuccino place, they might be able to talk in a different way, some release might be possible. She went into the living room with a brisk step and put her arms around him from behind. But as soon as she did that a wave of grief swallowed her upit must have been the heat of the shower, loosening her tearsand she bent over him, all crumbling and crying.
He took his hands off the keyboard but sat still.
"Just dont be mad at me," she said.
"Im not mad. I hate when youre like this, thats all."
"Im like this because youre mad."
"Dont tell me what I am. Youre choking me. Start supper."
That was what she did. It was obvious by now that the five oclock person wasnt coming. She got out the potatoes and began to peel them, but her tears would not stop and she could not see what she was doing. She wiped her face with a paper towel and tore off a fresh one to take with her and went out into the rain. She didnt go into the barn because it was too miserable in there without Flora. She walked along the lane back to the woods. The horses were in the other field. They came over to the fence to watch her. All of them except Lizzie, who capered and snorted a bit, had the sense to understand that her attention was elsewhere.
It had started when they read the obituary, Mr. Jamiesons obituary. That was in the city paper, and his face had been on the evening news. Up until the year before, they had known the Jamiesons only as neighbors who kept to themselves. She taught Botany at the college forty miles away, so she had to spend a good deal of her time on the road. He was a poet.
Everybody knew that much. But he seemed to be occupied with other things. For a poet, and for an old manperhaps twenty years older than Mrs. Jamiesonhe was rugged and active. He improved the drainage system on his place, cleaning out the culvert and lining it with rocks. He dug and planted and fenced a vegetable garden, cut paths through the woods, looked after repairs on the house.
Excerpted from Runaway by Alice Munro Copyright © 2004 by Alice Munro. Excerpted by permission of Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Blood at the Root
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