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Show Motherlunge a novel 78 12. White Lady on a Red Background On Christmas morning I followed Pavia downstairs. In the living room, the foldout bed had been put away. I saw Dorothy's blue jewelry box on top of the coffee table and tucked it under my arm. Then we went into the kitchen where we found Dorothy already dressed, tugging on a drawer handle with both plump hands. "Coffee filters?" she asked as we came in the room. Pavia went over and yanked the drawer open, reminding me of a recent medical case in which a twenty-three-year-old white male had fractured his C5 and C6 vertebrae forcing an old window, with devastating neurologic consequences. "Thanks." Dorothy sat slowly down at the table. "And Merry Christmas, girls." I sat down in the chair next to her. I tried this: I let my head rest on her shoulder. We watched Pavia fold the filter and throw scoops of coffee grounds into it. "What happened to Joseph?" I asked. "Well," Dorothy said, "It looks like he's gone." I lifted my head and she smiled gently at me. Her tired blue eyes held mine like a pair of soft hooks until I looked away. "Where?" I asked. "How long? Did he leave a note?" "He's like that, Thea. When its time to go, he goes." "With your stuff?" |