Ход королевы

           WheatleyhadalreadyleftforDenveronbusinessandwouldbeawayforseveralweeks.Aphotographofhimsatontheuprightpianobytheheavilydrapeddining-roomwindow.InthelivingroomtheTVwasplayingunattended;adeepmalevoicewasdeclaimingaboutAnacin.

           Mr.WheatleyhaddriventhemtoLexingtoninsilenceandthengoneimmediatelyupstairs.Hecamedownafterafewminuteswithasuitcase,kissedMrs.Wheatleydistractedlyonthecheek,noddedagoodbyetoBethandleft.

           “Theywantedtoknoweverythingaboutus.HowmuchmoneyAllstonmakesamonth.Whywehavenochildrenofourown.Theyeveninquired”—Mrs.WheatleybentforwardoverthePyrexdishandspokeinastagewhisper—“theyeveninquiredifIhadbeeninpsychiatriccare.”Sheleanedbackandletoutherbreath.“Canyouimagine?Canyouimagine?”

           “No,ma’am,”Bethsaid,fillinginthesuddensilence.Shetookanotherforkfuloftunaandfolloweditwithadrinkofwater.

           “Theyarethorough,”Mrs.Wheatleysaid.“But,youknow,Isupposetheyhavetobe.”Shehadnottouchedanythingonherplate.Duringthetwohourssincetheyarrived,Mrs.WheatleyhadspentthetimejumpingupfromwhateverchairshewassittinginandgoingtochecktheovenoradjustoneoftheRosaBonheurprintsonthewalls,oremptyherashtray.ShechatteredalmostconstantlywhileBethputinanoccasional“Yes,ma’am”or“No,ma’am.”Bethhadnotyetbeenshownherroom;herbrownnylonbagstillsatbythefrontdoornexttotheoverflowingmagazinerackwhereshehadleftitatten-thirtythatmorning.