A thoughtful look passed over the older woman’s face. “Maybe,” she said finally. She seemed to rouse herself purposefully. “I have a little savings,” she said. “I’ve written out instructions for the bank, to release those funds to the hospital to pay for my care and—afterward.”
Some people needed to talk about practical matters, unwilling or unable to let go of details. Miss Branson outlined her arrangements for her small apartment and what would become of her things, and Anna listened without interrupting her.
“But really what I wanted to tell you is that I have some lovely hats,” she was saying. “Do you think you might like to have them?”
Startled, Anna marshaled her thoughts, but Miss Branson held up a hand to forestall Anna’s answer. “They are my own work, the best of my work. I started in a milliner’s shop when I was just eight years old. Six days a week, from seven in the morning to seven in the evening. At first I swept floors and at thirty I was the designer. I trained under old Mr. Malcolm and then I worked for his son and finally his grandson. My whole life in that one place. Fifty years in the same shop on the same street.”
“That is a very long time.”
“He’s still alive,” Miss Branson said. Her gaze was far away, but her tone was matter-of-fact. “The first Mr. Malcolm. Ninety-four years old but still spry, the kind of elderly gentleman who seems just as dry and tough as gristle.” She glanced at Anna, who nodded that she understood.
“But terribly absentminded about everything outside his business. Even when I first knew him, Mr. Malcolm could never remember birthdays—not even his own—or anniversaries or invitations, and he mixed up his children, running through all the names until he hit the right one. Jacob-Hans-Jeb or Amity-Ruth-Josie, just like that. They laughed it off, though I think when the children were little there were some hurt feelings, now and then. I didn’t see it at first but as I got older I realized that it wasn’t really comical, how much passed him by. How many small good things in his life went unnoticed.”
She turned her head to watch the activity on the bridge for a moment, and then she picked up her story again. “He was a strict taskmaster, but not mean. Never mean. Gruff but good-hearted, is how I think of him. My own father died young and I felt the lack, so I sometimes pretended that Mr. Malcolm was my father. I think the idea came to me because he always remembered my name, you see. His daughters he couldn’t keep straight, but he knew my name. And that made me think I was a little special.”
Anna was fairly sure that Miss Branson had had no visitors, though she had been admitted to the hospital the previous Saturday.
“I sent word, Monday morning. Paid a messenger to take a note to say that I was here and couldn’t come in. Didn’t hear back but after—after you told me my situation I thought I should write again, but maybe not. They might be closed up for the celebration. They might.”
Anna drew in a deep breath and held it. The simplest of stories, and her heart was beating so fiercely she could feel the pulse in her wrists. A physician had to keep some distance, but once in a while a simple story would catch her unawares, sliding like a needle through a crack in a thimble to embed itself deeply, without warning, in tender flesh.
Miss Branson was looking at Anna with an expression that couldn’t be identified. Not pain or sorrow or regret, and nothing of anger. Anna could not rail against an insensitive and cruel employer in the face of such placid acceptance. She certainly could not disturb the woman’s peaceful state of mind, not now or ever.
“Things never quite turn out the way you imagine, do they,” Miss Branson said, her voice low and almost amused in tone. “You have to pay attention to the moment in your hands, before it’s gone.
“Now, would you have any use for my hats? I don’t like to leave my bills unpaid, and you have looked after me very well.”
? ? ?
ANNA CHANGED INTO the summer-weight frock she had brought with her, brushed out her hair and put it up again in a loose chignon on the back of her head, changed her shoes, and picked up the straw boater that would protect her from the sun on the river. She regarded herself in the mirror. Margaret was fond of pointing out that Jack had done wonders for Anna’s complexion, making it more of a subtle accusation than a compliment. Anna saw that it was true, her color was high and her skin clear. She wondered if sexual frustration could be as invigorating as sex itself, wondered what Margaret would say to this question. The idea put a smile on her face. She hadn’t been alone with Jack for a very long time, but that would change soon.