“I’m Gwen. I’m happy to meet everyone.”

Happiness was not what Hazzley was seeing. The woman looked as if she might bolt. Indeed, she kept eyeing the doorway as if a predator was expected. Hazzley succeeded in making eye contact, and after that, Gwen fixed her gaze on Hazzley’s face and scarcely blinked while speaking. The word “fragile” scurried its signal through Hazzley’s mind. Easily broken, of delicate frame or constitution.

“I saw your notice that windy day last week,” Gwen went on. “Objects were flying through the air: branches, leaves. Road signs tipped over.”

Others were remembering. Tom thought of the black bag lodged in the oak. On windy days, the flapping plastic resembled a huge crow with one ragged, beat-up wing. Perpetual motion that yielded no results. The crow was too high for him to dislodge; he’d have to get out the ladder. He’d written a few lines in his notebook on one of those windy days:

Leaves falling, the sway

Of earth now felt and seen.

Is this all we have come to?

All we have been?

Hazzley was thinking of geranium petals, an eddy of red swirling about her ankles. She held her gaze steady on Gwen and saw the tightness of her jaw, the neck and facial muscles.

Gwen carried on. “I decided it would be good to talk to people who’ve had similar experiences. That’s why I’m here. My husband’s name was Brigg.” She looked over at Chiyo. “He, too, died in April. He had a stroke—a devastating stroke. And. Well.” Gwen had lost track of her thoughts. After a pause, she started up again. “The meaning of the name Brigg is ‘dweller by the bridge’—Old English.” She said this with a straight face, perfectly serious, but Hazzley, watching her, sensed irony, or humour, or the threat of humour beneath the surface. “I haven’t dealt with Brigg’s clothes,” said Gwen, making a sudden U-turn. “In his closet, you know. Five months and I haven’t been able to force myself to the task.”

Tom interjected. “Ida’s, too,” he said. “On shelves, in drawers. Winter boots, ankle boots in the front closet, shoes on the rack. An old church hat with a navy-blue veil. I keep promising myself to get the job done.” He said this wistfully. He was thinking of Ida in hospital the day before she died. Propped against pillows, the head of her bed raised, her skin pale and cool, the low and steady hiss of oxygen administered by means of a nasal cannula. He held her hand and she said, “I’m thankful, Tom. I’m content with the life I’ve lived. I feel blessed that we’ve had so many years together.” Ida had grace; in that moment, she’d been filled with grace. He wanted to weep. Then and now.

Gwen acknowledged Tom, and continued. “I’m retired now, but I used to work at Spinney’s, the office furniture business over by the ravine. I’m an accountant. I was the company bookkeeper there for years.” A memory darted in: She’d been sent by the manager to take a three-day computer course in the mid-nineties. The class was small, about ten people. The man at the desk beside her in the classroom moved his mouse around like a toy truck. He was in his fifties and thought he was amusing her. He whispered, for her benefit, “Vroom, vroom.”