His evening beer or two with Jud Crandall became something of a habit. Around the time Gage began sleeping through again, Louis began bringing his own six-pack over every second or third night. He met Norma Crandall, a sweetly pleasant woman who had rheumatoid arthritis-filthy old rheurnatoid arthritis, which kills so much of what could be good in the old ages of men and women who are otherwise healthy-but her attitude was good. She would not surrender to the pain; there would be no white flags. Let it take her if it could. Louis thought she might have another five to seven productive if not terribly comfortable years ahead of her.
Going completely against his own established customs, he examined her at his own instigation, inventoried the prescriptions her own doctor had given her, and found them to be completely in order. He felt a nagging disappointment that there was nothing else he could do or suggest for her, but her Dr. Weybridge had things as under control as they were ever going to be for Norma Crandall-barring some sudden breakthrough, which was possible but not to be counted upon. You learned to accept, or you ended up in a small room writing letters home with Crayolas.
Rachel liked her, and they had sealed their friendship by exchanging recipes the way small boys trade baseball cards, beginning with Norma Crandall's deep-dish apple pie for Rachel's beef stroganoff. Norma was taken with both of the Creed children-particularly with Ellie, who, she said, was going to be "an old-time beauty." At least, Louis told Rachel that night in bed, Norma hadn't said Ellie was going to grow into a real sweet coon. Rachel laughed so hard she broke explosive wind, and then both of them laughed so long and loudly that they woke up Gage in the next room.
The first day of kindergarten arrived. Louis, who felt pretty well in control of the infirmary and the medical-support facilities now, took the day off.
(Besides, the infirmary was currently dead empty; the last patient, a summer student who had broken her leg on the Student Union steps, had been discharged a week before.) He stood on the lawn beside Rachel with Gage in his arms, as the big yellow bus made the turn from Middle Drive and lumbered to a stop in front of their house. The doors at the front folded open; the babble and squawk of many children drifted out on the mild September air.
Ellie cast a strange, vulnerable glance back over her shoulder, as if to ask them if there might not yet be time to abort this inevitable process, and perhaps what she saw on the faces of her parents convinced her that the time was gone, and everything which would follow this first day was simply inevitable-like the progress of Norma Crandall's arthritis. She turned away from them and mounted the steps of the bus. The doors folded shut with a gasp of dragon's breath. The bus pulled away. Rachel burst into tears.
"Don't, for Christ's sake," Louis said. He wasn't crying. Only damn near. "It's only half a day."
"Half a day is bad enough," Rachel answered in a scolding voice and began to cry harder. Louis held her, and Gage slipped an arm comfortably around each parent's neck. When Rachel cried, Gage usually cried too. But not this time. He has us to himself. Louis thought, and he damn well knows it.
They waited with some trepidation for Ellie to return, drinking too much coffee, speculating on how it was going for her. Louis went out into the back room that was going to be his study and messed about idly, moving papers from one place to another but not doing much else. Rachel began lunch absurdly early.
When the phone rang at a quarter past ten, Rachel raced for it and answered with a breathless "Hello?" before it could ring a second time. Louis stood in the doorway between his office and the kitchen, sure it would be Ellis's teacher telling them that she bad decided Ellie couldn't hack it; the stomach of public education had found her indigestible and was spitting her back. But it was only Norma Crandall, calling to tell them that Jud had picked the last of the corn and they were welcome to a dozen ears if they wanted it. Louis went over with a shopping bag and scolded Jud for not letting him help pick it.
"Most of it ain't worth a tin shit anyway," Jud said.
"You'll kindly spare that talk while I'm around," Norma said. She came out on the porch with iced tea on an antique Coca-Cola tray.
"Sorry, my Love."
"He ain't sorry a bit," Norma said to Louis and sat down with a wince.
"Saw Ellie get on the bus," Jud said, lighting a Chesterfield. "She'll be fine,"
Norma said. "They almost always are." Almost, Louis thought morbidly.
But Ellie was fine. She came home at noon smiling and sunny, her blue first-day-of-school dress belling gracefully around her scabbed shins (and there was a new scrape on one knee to marvel over), a picture of what might have been two children or perhaps two walking gantries in one hand, one shoe untied, one ribbon missing from her hair, shouting, "We sang 'Old MacDonald'! Mommy! Daddy!
We sang 'Old MacDonald'! Same one as in the Carstairs Street School!"
Rachel glanced over at Louis, who was sitting in the window seat with Gage on his lap. The baby was almost asleep. There was something sad in Rachel's glance, and although she looked away quickly, Louis felt a moment of terrible panic.