Зима тревоги нашей

           "Marullo?I’llhavetoadmit,darling,IwishIknewwhatitwasallabouttoo."

           "Butabagofcheapcandy—"

           "Doyousupposeitmightbeagravesimplicity?"

           "Idon’tunderstand."

           "Hiswifeisdead.Hehasneitherchicknorchild.He’sgettingold.Maybe—well,maybehe’slonely."

           "Heneverhasbeenherebefore.Whilehe’slonesome,youshouldaskhimforaraise.Hedoesn’tdropinonMr.Baker.Itmakesmenervous."

           Igaudedmyselfliketheflowersofthefield,decentdarksuit,myburyingblack,shirtandcollarsostarchlywhitetheythrewthesun’slightbackinthesun’sface,ceruleantiewithcautiouspolkadots.

           WasMrs.MargieYoung-Huntwhompingupancestralstorms?WheredidMarullogethisinformation?ItcouldonlybeMr.BuggertoMrs.Young-HunttoMr.Marullo.IdonottrusttheeMargieYoung,thereasonwhyIcannottongue.ButthisIknowandknowrightspung,IdonottrusttheeMrs.Young.AndwiththatsinginginmyheadIdelvedinthegardenforawhiteflowerformyEasterbuttonhole.Intheanglemadebythefoundationandtheslopingcellardoorthereisaprotectedplace,theearthwarmedbythefurnaceandexposedtoeveryscrapofwintersunlight.Therewhitevioletsgrow,broughtfromthecemeterywheretheygrowwildoverthegravesofmyancestors.Ipickedthreetinylion-facedblossomsformybuttonholeandgatheredarounddozenformydarling,settheirownpaleleavesaboutthemforanosegay,andboundthemtightwithabitofaluminumfoilfromthekitchen.