Read Warm Wuinter's Garden for Free Online

prey, seeks safety, Dilly lifted the phone
receiver off its base during her minutes of incapacitation. The
muscles at the back of her jaw ached from working hard to muster up
enough fluid to dissolve or digest what was nearly indigestible.
The second two marshmallows were easier to eat after she hacked
them into halves with a ten inch chef’s knife and lubricated them
with a thick coating of Karo syrup. Ever the analyst, Dilly noted
that while the syrup-coated variety could be eaten much faster than
the peanut butter version, they took longer to clean up. Her
syrup-coated tongue, quickly becoming as thick and flaccid as a
drunk’s as the sugar raced to her brain, traced her lips several
times with no discernible removal of the stickiness. Finally, she
wiped her mouth hard with her hand and licked the last of the
sweetness from her palm.
    With the pleasure of her small sin over,
Dilly looked at the kitchen clock to see how much longer it would
be before her neighbor Laura brought her two and Dilly’s three
children home from the day program at Camp Gustavus.
    From the moment that her youngest, Kate, had
started school the previous fall, Dilly had pined for summer and
the return of little ones to do for. Unlike her mother, Dilly took
little satisfaction from being useful with things. Her deepest
pleasures came from being useful to those around her, even when
those chosen few would have willingly foregone some of Dilly’s
helpfulness.
    When eleven year old Jessie, a mash of tomboy
and princess, had deigned to begin school six years before, Dilly
had had Roger, the Artful Dodger, then three, and newborn Kate left
at home. When the Dodger flew out the door to bring his pulsating
personality to an unsuspecting and unprepared room of classmates,
she still had the recalcitrant Kate to shape and mold. But, the
previous fall, when Kate had gone, tearless, with a waggly wave as
she pulled herself up the bus steps, Dilly found her satisfaction
in the day and her life to be greatly shrunk.
    Dilly had kept herself as busy as before. She
did because she should, but she no longer knew the basis of the
shoulds. Dilly discovered that good works—laundry, vacuuming,
dishes, dusting, or ironing—without an audience was just drudgery.
Doing household chores without children around was like being a
straw boss without a crew.
    Throughout the year Dilly had discussed
having another child with Bill. She argued that, at thirty-eight,
she wasn’t too old. The statistics on Down’s syndrome babies and
other age-related pregnancy complications didn’t become really bad
until after the mother was forty. He argued that they needed time
to prepare for their retirement. If they had another child, they
would be over sixty before that child graduated from college. When
would they ever save? What would they do when they were old? When
was it their turn? Bill couldn’t comprehend why she would want to
take a step backward. Why would she want to refill the house with
daytime noise just after it had become quiet for the first time in
eleven years?
    Too many discussions had turned their words
bitter. Bill wanted his future secure; Dilly wanted her present
insured. Dilly knew that she needed to make a decision. She didn’t
know what to do with all the fear and anger. A year of holding in.
There were days when it felt as if the pressure of what she
contained would rip her skin loose from her muscles. She could
imagine hearing the wheesh of the escaping emotions.
    Dilly Koster had had built her life upon
righteousness and being right. She had spent her life’s energy
convincing others that she knew what was right for them. In Dilly’s
thinking Bill had been lost when she first met him. She had given
him purpose and direction. When her children were young and had
come to her for answers, she had provided them. When they had
slowed in their requests, she had sought them out and answered
things not asked. She needed to help. She knew what was right. She
had