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Show 30 into a past she thinks they both still treasure, but which only she still wishes to remember. Suddenly, he sees her as an old and failing woman, closing off a future, feeding more and more on the things of the past. If he were to suggest a trip, she would remind him that they had been to India, Australia, and spent several years in Europe; she would say she'd seen as much of the world as she thought reasonable, and did not see much point in distracting herself by trudging through more. If he were to suggest a literature course or a crafts-making hobby or initiating a new friendship, she would say she'd had as much of these enterprises as she required, and would not want to clutter up the closing moments of her life with any more. She would resist any suggestion he might make to decorate their future; she did not think there would be one. He watches her, sitting perfectly still, cross-legged on the floor, her hands cupping the tiny locket she had worn as a child, and sees the way she is imposing an end, deliberately bringing their lives to a close. That is what they have planned, he knows. But he wonders why he cannot pick himself up out of the chair. He should go back to his office, he knows, to finish the Defense; space is still waiting in the September Reports. He should begin his packing-though he does not think it will take him long to dispose of his own belongings, and he has no desire to sort through them, cherish them, divide them up among his heirs in the way that Annis is doing; all he will need is a couple of cardboard cartons and the telephone number of the Salvation Army. But he cannot move, it is as if his arms have adhered permanently to the arms of the chair, as if his legs and lower body are glued to the seat, as if he is an upright Gulliver, tied to the chair by the ropes of tiny invisible |
