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Show throat. Philip wiped his forehead, rubbed at the dust and dirt and sweat which had gathered there above his eyes. The others, he saw, had started back from the cemetery. The cloud behind them had grown, now filled the eastern sky. It was almost windy. "It's sad," she suddenly said, "that we're both so sorry." Of course she was right, he saw that now; saw that it was going to rain.. Farmers all over Ohio would be pleased. Jonathan, across the road, waved. The Arabs around the fire laughed. Philip looked at Molly, saw that her eyes were perfectly dry, saw that the only fire that burned behind them was one of relief, and so he went without words into the house. What was he forgetting? Why, exactly, had he come on this trip in the first place? There was nothing waiting for him in Morocco. Molly had never promised more than she gave. He stood at the window in the kitchen and stared out at the bay, the dark silhouette against the dying light of the western sky. He had nearly wept when the doctors told him the child was dead; had stood in the waiting room at the hospital, and later at Julia's bedside, and wiped with his hands at eyes he imagined to be wet. She had been more philosophical about it, had spoken calmly, matter-of-factly of their bad luck. "Philip, the chicken is burning." It was Julia, here, standing calmly at the door. He rushed back outside. It wasn't exactly true; the chicken was crisp, but it wasn't burnt. Tia was giggling, he couldn't imagine why. Molly was gone, probably to the bathroom. Philip turned |
