“But what about my little friend,” said Ida, teetering in the kitchen doorway in her slippers, “who made cakes for prisoners, a different flower on each cake, with little leaves—”

The Meals-On-Wheels girl stopped and looked hard at Ida. “Honey? You all right?”

“That other Meals-On-Wheels girl, the one whose mind was freed up; she had energy for other things.”

“Honey, there was nobody but me, and then Richard and Albert each took half my route when I was out, and now I’m back. Listen, I’m going to get Doris to come see about you. Where’s my list? What was that daughter’s name out in California—Judy, what was it? A-something.”

“Auerbach,” said Ida, creeping down to the hall cupboards. “Come look,” she said to the Meals-On-Wheels girl. “She washed all the linens, she polished the silver, we danced on the daffodils and sang ‘Where Roses Bloom and Fade’ and drank soup flavored with chicken feet. You’ll see.” Ida opened the cupboard doors.

But instead of neat stacks of linen tablecloths and napkins smelling of Clorox and sunshine, there was nothing but a square of white shelf paper slid crooked, with one corner folded up against the back wall. “Here,” said Ida, opening up the china cabinet. But there was no silver pitcher, no Royal Crown Derby tea set, no Flight and Barr Worcester, no rosewood box—just air, smelling slightly of camphor.

From the kitchen Ida could hear the Meals-On-Wheels girl talking on the telephone.

“You might be wanting to think about another level of care….

“I’ll get Doris from over at Shady Rest, if you’ve done the paperwork….

“Yeah, but she’s got a mess here in the house now, some kind of plant died on the walls.”

Then Ida began remembering flashes of things: the gold thread in the Meals-On-Wheels girl’s swirling red skirt, the red wine in the gold-rimmed glasses, the glowing dogwood leaves, the dew on the silver pitcher, and the glint of silver from the heavenly blue dress.

“Yeah, she’s talking good, but she’s not making much sense. Here she is,” said the old Meals-On-Wheels girl, and she handed Ida the telephone.

“Mama?” said Judy.

Ida smiled and said, “Everything is fine.”

The Long Black Veil

EVER SINCE HER mother died of Alzheimer’s disease a year ago, Charlene has been plagued by suitors. Charles from the furniture store, who came to deliver her new sofa and then didn’t want to leave; Big Jim, who drops in to quote from the Bible about men and women; Larry from down the street, who comes over on his riding lawn mower and talks about Mars. These men are not skillful wooers. They remind Charlene of big, obsolete machinery—a cane grinder or cottonseed press.

“Now, if you got anything big you want moved, I can come back after work,” says the furniture man.

“No,” says Charlene, “everything is exactly where I want it, thank you.”