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funny, it’s like a baby, but way at the other end of life. Everything is a circle, if you think about it. Mrs. Randolph was doing fine until recently, and then she had a little stroke. She might get some better, but probably not a lot. Mr. Randolph’s face when he told me this was full of pain, yet he was smiling.
    When we’re through bathing Mrs. Randolph, Mr. Randolph says, “I wonder if you could stay with her now while I run out to the grocery store. Would that be all right?”
    â€œYes, sir,” I say. And then, “Do you think she’d like to go outside?”
    â€œPerhaps another time,” he says. “It’s awfully hot out today, and she doesn’t do well in the heat.”
    â€œWhat?” Mrs. Randolph asks, and Mr. Randolph bends over her ear to repeat what he said.
    â€œOh, I can’t tolerate the heat,” she says. “Never could. I just wilt. But maybe you could read to me a bit.”
    â€œOkay.” I wonder if I’ll have to yell the whole story. Mr. Randolph hands me a library book by someone called Taylor Caldwell. The title is The Listener, which is a very interesting title. Right away you want to know who is this listener, and what is he listening to? Mr. Randolph kisses Mrs. Randolph on the cheek, waves to me, and is gone.
    I open to the place that’s marked, and start reading. It is someone just talking about their troubles.
    â€œA little louder, dear,” Mrs. Randolph says, and there you are, the answer to the yelling part is yes.
    I haven’t read but two or three pages when I look up and see that Mrs. Randolph is sleeping. And now that I’ve stopped yelling the story, I can also hear her snoring. It’s a ladylike snore, not too loud, just a ruffled kind of breathing. I close the book and put it on my lap, then look at her lying there, her hands folded across her stomach. She wears a blue stone ring, and it is loose on her finger, turned to the side. I think how easy it would be for someone to pluck that ring from her. She is just so vulnerable, like a baby bird in the nest. She also wears a man’s watch so that she can see the numbers, and the watch band is twisted and held with a rubber band to be smaller, so it won’t fall off. And that is all, except of course for the nightgown. I wonder if she misses her clothes, if she thinks sometimes about how she used to leap out of bed and just get dressed, easy as pie, and now that has gone from her. I can see how some old people get mean and bitter about their lives getting so small, but Mrs. Randolph doesn’t seem that way. I think maybe it’s because of Mr. Randolph, who takes such good care of her, and even now is buying her the brown bread she wanted because she wants to eat it with some beans for lunch. There is some old people food, for sure. I wonder, Don’t they ever just want sloppy joes?
    I tiptoe out of the room and go to the hall to use the phone. Ihave to call Cynthia about the movie tonight, about what time we should meet. When she answers, she sounds mad. “It’s me,” I say. “What’s wrong?”
    â€œNothing,” she says. And waits.
    â€œI’m calling about the movie.”
    â€œI’ll be there.”
    â€œWhen?” I ask, and she says, “Whenever you say.”
    â€œThe Parent Trap starts at seven,” I say. “Want to see that one?”
    Deep sigh. “Okay.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong? Did you have a fight with your mother?”
    â€œI can’t talk. I’ll see you tonight.” She hangs up.
    I’ll bet anything that’s what it is; Cynthia is always fighting with her mother, who ought to live in the head room at Bellevue insane asylum. Anyone who says you should always respect your parents would change their minds if they met Mrs. O’Connell.
    I go back into the bedroom and sit in the chair and watch Mrs. Randolph sleep. I try to think about what she looked