In the Bleak Midwinter

Clare stuck out her hand. “Mrs. McWhorter,” she said, rummaging for something to say. “Pleased to meet you” and “Sorry about your husband” seemed grotesquely inappropriate under the circumstances. “I’m so very sorry about your recent losses,” she said. “From everything I’ve heard, Katie was an exceptional girl. She’ll be missed.” And as for your husband, good riddance to bad rubbish, Grandmother Fergusson added.

Brenda McWhorter shook hands and led Kristen and Clare into the apartment. They bunched awkwardly in front of a massive maple sideboard. “Well, go ahead, take your coats off,” Mrs. McWhorter said, gesturing toward a row of hooks by the door. “Same place, nothin’s changed since you left.”

Kristen rolled her eyes but obediently gathered up Clare’s bomber jacket and hung it alongside her own bulky coat.

“What interesting pieces you have,” Clare said. “They look like antiques.”

Brenda surveyed her kingdom. “They were my parents’. Came from the big farmhouse we had out toward Cossayaharie. We had to sell it when my dad passed, but I kept some of the furniture.”

Kristen plunked herself into the narrow Victorian settee and crossed her arms. “What are you gonna do now that he’s gone, Ma? Move back out to Aunt Pat’s? Get a job? What?”

Her mother sat, an operation that required her to lower her center of gravity over a well-used, well-sprung chair and then drop in a controlled fall. “Well, honey, I thought I’d stay right here. I know that we’ve had some problems in the past, but I figured now your daddy’s gone you and I can take up again, get to be friends. I got enough money to keep me . . .”

Clare sat on a cane-seated ladder chair, her face composed and pleasant, wondering how another human being could let herself get that large. She shifted in her chair. No, that wasn’t fair. Not everyone grew up in an active family and started off in a career that demanded physical fitness. On the other hand, basic self-respect should get you off the sofa and on your feet—she twitched. She didn’t call alcoholism a lack of self-respect. She shouldn’t see obesity that way, either. If some people didn’t have the discipline to push away from the table after a third helping—her cheeks warmed at her persistent failure of compassion. Dear God, she thought, help me to accept as Christ accepted. Keep my mind on helping, not judging. And remind me to put in a five-mile run this evening.

Kristen was going over her mother’s financial situation, asking to look over the pension and insurance documents, quizzing her on any other benefits. Mrs. McWhorter was at best vague about money matters.

“Ma, you’re going to have to learn to keep a checkbook now. Come on down to the bank tomorrow and I’ll set you up. That way, I can help you balance your account for awhile. You got the information on the CDs and the savings? Can I see it, please?”

Mrs. McWhorter heaved herself up from her chair and waddled down the hall. “Isn’t she smart?” she tossed back to Clare.

Clare turned to Kristen, still sitting back with her arms crossed defensively over her chest. “You are smart about finances,” she said.

“Everybody’s good about something, they say. I like it. I like numbers.”

“So consistent, aren’t they? So easy to control.” Kristen shot her a look. Clare went on. “It can be a lot easier to throw yourself into your work than to face personal problems, have you noticed that? It’s comfortable and distracting.”

Kristen shot up from the settee and threaded her way through the heavy furniture to the pass-through kitchen. “You want something to drink? I know Ma’s got soda in here.”

“I’m fine. Are you going to ask your mother about what she’d like for the funerals?”

Brenda McWhorter lumbered up the hallway, a sheaf of papers and envelopes in her hand. She stopped dead at Clare’s words. “Aw, Krissie,” she said. “We do gotta talk about that. You’re gonna take care of the details, aren’t you, honey? You know I’m no good at that sort of thing.”

Kristen slammed the refrigerator door with enough force to set the contents rattling. “Yeah, Ma, I’m gonna take care of the details. I know you’re no good at that sort of thing.” Her voice began to crack. “You don’t like to deal with life’s crappy little details.” She slammed a liter bottle of orange soda on the counter and knocked over two plastic glasses in the drainboard before grabbing hold of one.

“Krissie . . .”

“Ma, I’m the kid here, remember? You’re the mom. You’re supposed to be taking care of me, not the other way around.” The soda slopped over the pebbled sides of the glass. “You were supposed to take care of me and Katie and I gotta tell you, Ma, you did a piss-poor job of it.” A barking sob escaped her before she covered her mouth.