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with always a faint sheen of sweat near the surface. His eyes bulged faintly behind the glasses. His brown hair, parted neatly on the left and brushed backwards, never seemed to grow. He was enthusiastic and vague at the same time; he’d come back to the hotel all excited about a great house he’d seen, it’d suit us to the ground, big kitchen and living room, great view of the park, and a nursery for the baby — only he’d be unable to remember the address. Or the location. Which park? I’d ask. Could you see the lake? Was it on a hill? West or east of Yonge Street — you remember Yonge Street, I’d tell him — the big street with all the theatres? He’d smile, shake his head, and laugh at himself. It was an eighty-cent cab ride, he’d say.
    I got in touch with a real estate agent, an old sourpuss with those big ears that really old skinny-headed people get. Remember how excited he was when he found out our name. Any relation tothe textile company? he asked. And when Robbie nodded, he said, You know the stock just hit eighteen dollars a share. Tell me — do you think it’s due to split again? September, this would have been. Robbie giggled and said he had no idea. We called the real estate office after we moved into the house on Waverley, to ask something about taxes, but the phone had been disconnected.

The voice rattles in my ear, like a key in the locked door of my prison cell. I wonder what he’s saying. His arms are in front of him, gesturing. Like he’s praying. He looks worried, great blisters of sweat on his face. Harriet nods in earnest agreement. Hospitals are so military, like battleships of caring. This guy will be an officer of sorts. He points at me, points at Harriet, makes his gesture again. He looks earnest but he sounds like a shovel full of gravel.
    My daughter is wearing a beautiful dress. I didn’t know she had one like it, quite takes me back to another era. I’m in bed, lying down. I want to sit up but can’t. My head feels heavy and my arms are as weak as a baby’s. My daughter is holding my hand.
    What does that mean? says my daughter. I perk up. I can understand her. The rest of the noises that filter through the world to me are meaningless, but I know her voice. My daughter is speaking, and I can understand what she is saying.
    I squeeze her hand.
    She spares a moment to look down at me.
    Harriet, I say. She doesn’t respond.
    Harriet. I say it louder. Harriet Harriet. Do you hear me?
    She pats my hand. How much time do we have? she says.
    She’s not talking to me. She can’t understand me.
    The man says something. A white uniform, very formal — what is he, a doctor? He doesn’t look particularly medical. Not like my nice Dr. Sylvester. There was a man, now. What large dark eyes, like two of Ali Baba’s oil jars. Deep, rich, shiny, fattening — oh, to have eyes like that. To marry eyes like that. To be able to stare into them whenever you liked.
    A simple test, Dr. Sylvester said, giving me a cardboard clock with movable hands. Big hand, little hand. I thought of all the hands, withered old hands like mine, clutching the little cardboard hands of the clock. I thought of all the old men and women like me, trying to understand what the doctor was asking us to do. Trying to do what we were told because it was important to someone — not to us. Certainly not to me; I’ve never been any good at telling what time it was.
    Once a policeman came in to buy flowers, and said I’d have to go to court because the store was open too late.
    And what time is it anyway? I asked. I’ve no head for the hours, they just fly by.
    It’s well after six o’clock, missus, he said, pointing to his wrist-watch. Too late, he said.
    Too late for what? I asked.
    Too late for the men that write the laws downtown, he said.
    He’d come in with a smile and a kind word, bought carnations for his wife and waited for me to wrap them, then pulled out the summons. Piece of paper.
    How’d you know to