She finished and sat back on her heels and rubbed her open hands together to get rid of the earth. Then she put her hand on the handle of the watering can and began to get awkwardly to her feet. Hubert looked away from her and down at his own hands. There was no need for him to watch her, to know how she got up. He had seen her often enough, raising herself after doing out the fireplace, by placing her hand on the edge of the coal scuttle. When he looked out again she was standing with her back to him, looking about her as though she was calculating the effect of some improvement she had in mind. She raised one hand to her hair, to smooth a loose strand up off the back of her neck into the thick bun she wore. She was wearing a white blouse with loose sleeves, and as the sleeve fell back, her upraised arm gleamed. Hubert saw her wrist and her elbow, and in that fragment of her he saw all of Rose, as the crescent moon recalls the full moon to anyone who has watched her at the height of her power. Then Rose stooped and lifted the heavy watering can with both hands and began to move slowly away toward the end wall, watering the plants as she went.

The day was almost worn out. The light was thin — fading light that left everything visible. That evening’s light was helpless, the day in extremity, without strength enough left to dissemble with sun and shade, with only strength enough left to touch the world as it withdrew forever from the world. The evening light spoke, and what it said was, “There is nothing more to be said.” There is nothing more to be said because what remains to be said must not be said. It is too late for Rose.

Hubert was silent. He had nothing to say, and in any case there was no one to hear him.

The Drowned Man

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