The Wide World Judith Sears 1.31.17

The Wide WorldBy Judith Sears

The library was awash in sunlight streaming through the skylight and the tall windows on

three of the building’s four walls. Geneva left her first granddaughter, Teresa, with the

other five year olds listening to the librarian read from a large picture book about a frog.

She drifted across the threshold to the adult side, tracking alongside the large,

rounded librarian’s desk to the periodicals section.

A white-haired man sat at a long table with a newspaper open before him. Geneva

picked up the Northern Oklahoma Herald from the newspaper rack and took a seat at the

other end of the table. She paged through the paper, pausing to note that the Watergate

Seven had been indicted. She was about to turn past the memorials when one picture

arrested her. A woman with big teeth and big glasses and a high wave of hair. Mrs.

Harold Dawes, nee Rita Dawes, had died, aged 73.

During what she still thought of as the war, Geneva had stood in line all morning for

nylons for herself and her sister, Marilyn, at Parker’s Dry Goods on Main Street. Her

nose had gotten red and her ears had stung from the cold.

But she had scored six pair! She walked the six blocks home quickly over a

rugged, cracked sidewalk.

She was at the corner when she saw Dr. Kirby’s Renault pulled over to the curb

beside their house. Dr. Kirby himself, looking like a giant, hovering raven in his black

overcoat, was about to enter the screen door her mother held open, when he glanced

1

The Wide World Judith Sears 1.31.17

down the street and his eyes met Geneva’s. He quickly looked away, and then down as if

ashamed, confused.

Geneva’s stomach turned over. She began to run, a frantic hopscotch across the

broken up sidewalk.

In the living room, Dr. Kirby and her mother looked in consternation at the floor.

“What?” Geneva asked.

“Miss Birch, Evelyn down at the telegram station, asked me to bring this to you

directly,” he held out a light brown envelope. “I believe it came this morning.”

Geneva put her package of hosiery on the sofa and peeled off her gloves. The

telegram was from Harold’s mother, Mrs. Dawes. The Dawes family had had their own

telegram, one from the U.S. Department of Defense. A heavy, tolling bell started up in

Geneva’s head: Harold Jr. had died in the Battle of the Bulge, sometime late in

December.

Geneva’s throat caught and strangled her sobs, which escaped in clumsy hiccups

and heaves. She bent over toward the couch and collapsed on it, sobbing wildly.

She was dimly aware that Dr. Kirby muttered a few times how sorry he was. Then

he was gone. Her mother sat beside her and gave her a handkerchief and patted her back.

After a while, she left also.

Harold’s letters from the front had been, like himself, jocular. He made light of the cold,

of the rations, of the marches. He wrote that he had been trying to perfect his soft shoe

and slipped and fell in the mud and sprained his ankle. He had never had a soft shoe.

Now he was gone.

2

The Wide World Judith Sears 1.31.17

Had he had a chance to recover? What did they do with someone on a long march,

who couldn’t march? Did that make him an easier target? She was dismayed at how little

she knew about the conditions of battle, at the naiveté of her speculations.

Gas was rationed but her father found a filling station willing to bend the rules

and two days later Geneva sat between her mother and father in the front seat of their

pickup. The drive, on two lane roads, to the Dawes home in Enid, took most of the

morning. She stared straight ahead. On the flat Plains the pickup seemed to skitter along

the periphery of the world, going forward on a wheel that was turning against it, moving

only to stay in the same place.

The Dawes’ rambling two-story frame house was crowded with neighbors and

well-wishers. Harold Jr.’s picture sat on a lace tablecloth in the middle of the dining room

table, surrounded by flowers. There would be no body returned.

Mrs. Dawes moved with bleak composure, introducing Geneva and her parents to

other family and guests. Harold had two sisters, an older brother, also serving overseas

and a younger brother, too young for the draft.

The mourners talked sporadically through the afternoon and into the evening. One

sister, Lorna, dark blonde like Harold, remembered him getting detention for throwing

water balloons from the third floor of the high school. A neighbor mentioned his prowess

as an auto mechanic. They remembered his pass-times, his best qualities and agreed he’d

been universally liked.

3

The Wide World Judith Sears 1.31.17

Geneva stared at her hands, trying to take the thoughts in, fearing everything was

seeping through, like water.

Though urged to let others serve, Mrs. Dawes periodically went through swinging

doors to the kitchen, returning with coffee or pie. “He was a good boy,” she declared.

“Never gave us any trouble.”

Geneva nodded. He was brave and handsome and lying face down in a field near

Reims.

Geneva had taken off her engagement ring and returned it to its black box before

leaving home. She had wanted to have it ready, so returning it would be a fait accompli.

Later in the evening, she followed Mrs. Dawes into the kitchen and pressed the box into

her hand.

Mrs. Dawes eyebrows shot up and then she cocked her head sympathetically.

“You keep it,” she said.

Geneva shook her head, quickly, vehemently, almost shuddering her refusal.

Mrs. Dawes put her arms around her and they wept soundlessly.

Walking down the steps from the Dawes Geneva looked up at the dark sky and

the night Harold had irretrievably entered. “He knew he was loved,” she thought. “He did

have that.”

Mercifully, her mother, the leader and enforcer of piety in the family, did not

press Geneva too hard. She eventually said some pious words about the consolations of

faith, but not too many. She had lost two young sons to scarlet fever before Geneva was

born. Almost as wise as she was pious, she knew the abyss no words cross.

4

The Wide World Judith Sears 1.31.17

Geneva returned to school for the Spring semester, going to classes and studying

with grim determination. As if on a long march, she completed her junior year in college.

Along the way, she internalized the vast indifference of death. “You will die, too, so what

do you matter?” She delivered this thought to herself in many different ways.

That summer, she gave piano lessons and worked at the dry goods store. On

Sunday afternoons, she played with her sister Marilyn’s new daughter, Annie. From

Annie, Geneva recovered her first easy smiles. For several months it was as if the ghost

of Harold was just out of sight and she could not smile, though she knew Harold

wouldn’t have begrudged it. But she didn’t like to feel frivolous. With four-month old

Annie, however, it seemed absolutely right to sit under a tree on a summer day and laugh

and smile, death be damned.

That fall, Everett, back from service, walked into her life and immediately pressed

his case as her partner. It was easier than she would have believed and a little over a year

after Harold’s death, she married Everett in a modest church ceremony.

Geneva looked up from the newspaper, disoriented for a moment, trying to find a

landmark amidst the swirling light and the looming memories. Nearly 30 years since

Harold Jr.’s death in the Battle of the Bulge in World War II. She didn’t recall how long

it had been since she’d thought of him. She’d been twenty when he died, engaged at

nineteen. They’d gotten engaged in a hurry, to her mother’s mild, unspoken disapproval.

“Grandmother, watch how I hop like a frog!” Startled, Geneva turned quickly at

the sound of Teresa’s voice calling out across the quiet library. She rose quickly and

5

The Wide World Judith Sears 1.31.17

made a ‘shushing’ gesture at the girl. From behind the big round desk, the librarian

shushed also, but smiled indulgently.

Geneva grasped Teresa’s hand and held it as she looked one more time at the

memorial notice. Then she led the squirming girl to the car, half-listening as Teresa

talked about story time and how she would climb the elm tree after dinner.

“We got a card from Mark with his new address,” Everett said at dinner, pausing before

he forked mashed potatoes into his mouth.

Their younger son, Mark had recently stopped by for a few days on his way to St.

Louis, where an engineering job waited.

He hadn’t talked much. He walked with his head partly ducked, a smile playing at

the ends of his mouth. Geneva wasn’t sure if he was embarrassed to be seen or amused at

returning with newly educated eyes to see the rural-ness, the small town-ness that had

reared him.

She saw him now, tall, ironic, making his way in the world. He was twenty-four,

the age Harold had been when he’d died. Harold had been her senior by four years.

Geneva realized she had thought of him as older, wiser.

Now she knew what a boy Harold had been. She wasn’t fast enough to block the

picture her mind presented of Mark’s body torqueing from side to side as bullets plowed

into it. That was Harold’s parents’ loss.

6

The Wide World Judith Sears 1.31.17

Her decision snapped into place. It didn’t make a lot of sense – she didn’t know

the Dawes, not really, they’d vanished from each others’ lives, but she’d made up her

mind.

Later that night in her bathrobe, rubbing moisturizer on her face, she said, “Rita

Dawes, Harold’s mother, died earlier this week.”

“Oh?” Everett, already reclining in bed, belly pushing out the newspaper, eyed

her over his reading glasses.

“I’m going to the funeral.”

“You are?”

She inspected the moisturizer jar. “I’d like to.”

“Will you drive alone? Would you like me to go?”

“I’ll be fine,” she replied. “By myself.”

After a pause he said, “I’ll make dinner, then,” he started to turn back to the paper

and then looked up at Geneva. “You’ll be back for dinner?”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

The next morning, she arose early and made the 120-mile trip to Enid. With the

four lane highway, she could make the trip in almost half the time it had taken thirty

years earlier, for Harold’s funeral. As the miles fell away, she thought about those years.

In the face of an endless horizon, she had stayed right where she was. The flat landscape

threw everything that stood upright into stark relief, exposed under the sky. She walked

to the post office as if under the gaze of eternity.

7

The Wide World Judith Sears 1.31.17

She recalled Harold – his love, his loss – as a grand dream that evaporated in the

face of every day life. By the time she was thirty, she was the mother of three and the

grind of life had begun in earnest, corralling the children, juggling the budget.

Everett taught high school math. Their house was modest, but boasted a big back

yard with elms where the children had swings and a tree house. Everett planted myrtle

bushes as well. Geneva gave piano lessons to bring in a little extra money.

The descendants of Quakers, they attended the local meeting house regularly.

Geneva liked best the times when the whole congregation sat quietly, waiting for the

Spirit to illumine them with a word from God. More often than not, the waiting was

empty for her, but she returned. She waited.

She loved Everett or at any rate, was used to him like she was used to the

bedroom wallpaper she’d chosen for its multi-colored floral pattern and was now

oblivious to. More than occasionally, his fussiness exasperated her. Truth be told, he

made her know how small life could be, with his preoccupation with arranging and

rearranging kitchen shelves and cutting coupons to save ten cents.

“Fifteen cents,” she could hear his voice in her head, correcting her.

But, she was determined to give him his due.

Sometime in her forties, she chopped off her hair at the neckline, leaving only a

few wavy tendrils at her forehead to hint at the former richness. She told people it was

because of the Oklahoma heat, but she also did it to practice simplicity or to eschew

vanity.

8

The Wide World Judith Sears 1.31.17

Eschew. A word, a practice, she increasingly embraced. She found herself

burdensome and resolved to get herself out of the way.

In Enid, she sat at the back of the sizable church sanctuary, which was about half-full.

There appeared to be many grandchildren. She didn’t really recognized Harold’s sisters,

but from the seating arrangement and their conduct, she could pick them out.

After the service, in the church reception area, she approached the one she

believed was Lorna and introduced herself briefly.

The woman frowned. She’s forgotten about a fiancé, Geneva thought, but then

she said, “Oh, yes,” and smiled.

“Your mother was very kind to me,” Geneva said. They exchanged a few minutes

of niceties and then Geneva excused herself.

She got back in the VW, feeling as if she had lost Harold entirely now. His voice

sounded in her ear. “We’ll see the world together, Geneva, you and me,” he’d said. He

was going to be a newspaper reporter when the war was over. “You and me, we’ll see the

world.” He spread out one arm to the sky. Geneva had nestled under his shoulder, seeing

the stars, content right there.

As if it had been yesterday, it struck her forcibly that Harold had not had a life.

She pulled to the side of the road and wept like she had thirty-some years earlier.

Eventually she stopped sobbing and got back on the road. Still, she cried quietly most of

the way home, gripping the wheel.

9

The Wide World Judith Sears 1.31.17

She pulled into the driveway of the little gray-shingled house. She wiped her eyes

and took several deep breaths. She entered the living room, noting the rich, welcoming

aroma of steak. Everett was as much a cook as Geneva and he enjoyed the dithering side

of cooking more than she did: spicing, stirring, checking, tasting, more spicing.

In the twilight, Everett’s gold-rimmed glasses gleamed from the kitchen threshold

where he stood waiting.

“Smells good,” she said, attempting to sound bright.

“Are you okay?”

“Sure, fine.” She related a bit about the funeral and her conversation with Lorna.

“So, it was a good trip?”

She nodded. She busied herself putting her keys in her purse, aware his eyes were

still on her.

“Steak will be ready in about fifteen minutes, okay?”

“Fine, great.”

He turned back to the kitchen and she went down in the basement. She got a

flashlight and pushed boxes around until she found the one she was looking for. She

pulled out the scrapbook she’d kept of Harold. She also had a shoebox of letters from

him. Everett had known about these boxes and not objected. She’d not looked at them

since her marriage.

Now her heart caught and she smiled when she saw Harold’s laughing eyes, the

wide-mouthed smile. Even the army, even war, couldn’t make him somber. Standing next

to him, Geneva’s hair was still dark, curly and thick.

10

The Wide World Judith Sears 1.31.17

That night she lay in bed, picturing the rows and rows of crosses she’d seen in the

pictures of Omaha Beach. It looked like an Escher drawing: death replicating itself across

a green field.

She had spent a lifetime schooling herself to accept loss, seek it even, the only

thing she knew for sure was holy.

The next morning, when she told Everett, he was as bewildered as she had known

he would be.

“France? Overseas? Really?”

“Yes.” She sat on the dresser stool, buttoning her blouse. She turned toward him.

“I’d really like to. Really.”

“No guide? No translator?”

“I don’t know where the tours go. I’ll have to find out.”

“I don’t see how we can afford a new car for you, if you do that,” he tried. His

eyes darted toward the checkbook. By necessity and mutual agreement, they’d lived

parsimoniously.

Geneva nodded. “I’ll get by with the Volkswagen, it will keep another year. Jerry

at the garage can keep it going.”

“It just seems so…so extravagant. I mean, we don’t go to France!”

“I know, but it’s possible. People do.”

“How will you get around if you’re not on a tour? You don’t speak the language.”

11

The Wide World Judith Sears 1.31.17

“I had some French in college. I’ll get Marilyn to go with me. We’ll manage.”

Marilyn had been to Europe twice on group tours. In Geneva’s eyes, this made her a

veteran.

“On our own?” Marilyn gasped over the phone when Geneva called. “I’ve never

been without a guide. Can we do that? It sounds like fun. How will we communicate?”

Marilyn continued for some time, consulting and disagreeing with herself.

“I’ll resurrect my college French,” Geneva said. “We’ll get a phrase book. We’ll

get directions at the airport. We’ll manage.”

They flew into London, with plans to take a train to Southampton and a ferry over to Le

Havre, France. Coming out of Heathrow, Geneva was temporarily overwhelmed. From

the back of the cab, she watched the immense waves of traffic, the relentless pace of the

city. She had long ago decided this kind of glamour had nothing to do with her or she

with it. What am I doing? What do I expect to find or understand?

She turned to Marilyn. “I think I’ve taken us on a wild goose chase.”

Marilyn cocked her head. “Do you think? I don’t know. What can it hurt? Do you

want to turn back? No, No, I think it could be fun, don’t you? ”

In the end, they’d booked with a tour to Omaha Beach and from there, made

arrangements to rent a car and strike out on their own going east through Picardy toward

the Ardennes.

Walking among the crosses at Omaha Beach Geneva felt small, superfluous, a bit

silly. “We lived an ordinary life,” she announced to the silent rows. It was a confession.

To have had the years of life and not know what there was to show.

12

The Wide World Judith Sears 1.31.17

They rented an Opel compact and set out north and east. It had been many years

since Geneva and Marilyn had spent time together without their spouses and children

around also. They rather quickly reverted to their youthful sisterhood. They hadn’t had

this much fun since they were teen-agers, getting lost, turning around in the middle of the

road, giggling hysterically in cafes as they tried to order from unamused wait staff.

“When you come down to it, wheat in France looks like wheat in Oklahoma,”

Geneva said, looking at the rolling fields. “Blé,” she spat out the French word for wheat.

Marilyn laughed. “Blé.” She copied Geneva’s blunt manner. “It doesn’t even

sound better. Does it sound better? I thought everything was supposed to sound better in

French.”

“Maybe it’s just our French,” Geneva said.

Tired and hungry, they stopped in a bistrot on the edge of Reims, though Geneva

did not drink spirits at all and Marilyn, who had stepped away from the Society of

Friends, usually refrained when with her sister.

They took a small round table off to the side of the bar and Marilyn went to find

the Ladies room. Geneva looked around, noting an old upright piano around the corner

from the bar. Her eyes rested on a menu written on a chalkboard next to the bar and she

stared blankly at it. She knew some of the words but they weren’t registering.

She was still staring when the kitchen door opened and out came Harold, singing

casually. Geneva blinked and inhaled cold air through her nostrils and held it, held it.

Not Harold, of course, but his spitting image, dark blonde, tall, lanky. He moved

with casual grace toward a customer standing at the bar and opened the bottle he was

13

The Wide World Judith Sears 1.31.17

carrying. Still humming, he stoppered the bottle and put it on a shelf. It was some kind of

swing tune.

Geneva was watching in fascination when the bartender’s eyes wandered over to

her. He smiled readily, “Bon jour,” he said.

She moved her mouth to say, ‘Bon jour,’ but carefully kept her voice inaudible so

as not to expose her Oklahoma accent to ridicule. She smiled.

“Quelqu’un a pris votre commande?” he asked.

Geneva’s mind scrambled. Votre command – your order. Harold was speaking

French to her and she couldn’t respond. “Ah, no, nous – nous, uh, n’avons…”

His eyes narrowed in on her. “Vous êtes Américaine? Canadienne?”

“American,” Geneva replied in English, relieved to give up her foray into French.

“My sister’s in the ladies room. We’ll order when she returns, if that’s all right.”

“Bien,” Harold replied and turned to another customer who had approached the

bar.

When Marilyn came back, Geneva pulled her picture of Harold from her purse

and handed it across the table. She nodded toward the bartender. “Look!”

She waited while Marilyn looked from the picture to the bartender two or three

times.

“There is a resemblance. My goodness,” Marilyn said with sing-song wonder in

her voice.

Geneva nodded.

14

The Wide World Judith Sears 1.31.17

“A strong resemblance.” Marilyn studied the photograph suspiciously, as if it

might be attempting to mislead her or if she looked away it might change. “My

goodness!” she repeated.

Harold, as she persisted in thinking of him although now she realized his hair was

darker, almost chestnut, took their order and didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow when the

Americans ordered tea and pastries.

He returned quickly with their order. “You are enjoying France?”

“Oh! Are we!” Marilyn exclaimed. “We are, aren’t we, Geneva?”

“Very much,” Geneva smiled. They described their trip to Omaha Beach and their

adventures so far in Picardy.

Harold advised them to be sure to visit the school in Reims where the surrender

documents ending World War II were signed.

Geneva and Marilyn nodded. It had been on their list.

“Bon Appetit.”

Geneva took a few bites of the pastry, savoring the cherry goo. She watched the

young bartender, Harold, chatting amiably with a customer. She made up her mind. “I

have to ask,” she said, briskly brushing the flakes from her hands.

Marilyn’s eyes widened. “Ask? Ask him? Ask him what? What will you say?”

Geneva shook her head. She wasn’t sure what she would ask and so she rose

before she could change her mind. She took her menu over to the bar.

“This is such a wonderful bistrot. I see it’s been here since the 1920’s – am I

reading that correctly?” she pointed to the menu where it said, date de création 1925.

15

The Wide World Judith Sears 1.31.17

“Yes, mon grand-père, my grandfather started it,” he replied. He smiled and put

his hands on the bar, his elbows out.

“And, your mother and father?” Geneva asked.

“My mother is the owner now. My father is…not with us.”

“Oh. We understand American troops may have been in the area here in World

War II,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Did any come here, do you know? It seems they must have at least passed by.”

He twisted his mouth, looked up at the ceiling, and shrugged his shoulders. “It’s

possible, I’m sure. One moment,” he turned and briefly went back through the kitchen

door.

He returned quickly, ushering a short, buxom French woman to the bar across

from Geneva. She appeared to be about Geneva’s age. She had a dish towel over her

shoulder. Her chestnut hair was streaked with gray.

“Ma mere, c’est une client,” he pointed at Geneva.

The woman gave a curt nod, not moving a muscle of her face.

Geneva listened as Harold explained that the American was asking about

American troops visiting in World War II. The woman pursed one corner of her mouth.

“I wondered if by chance you met a friend of mine,” Geneva started. “We were

just trying to trace their route in more detail, see some of what they might have seen…”

16

The Wide World Judith Sears 1.31.17

The woman’s dark eyes studied her; she crossed her arms. She was not interested

in making new American tourist acquaintances or reminiscing about American troops

from World War II. She murmured a brief remark in a low voice to Harold.

“She doesn’t recall. She was young and so…” he shrugged, a trace of apology in

his voice.

Geneva put the photograph back in her purse. It was almost certainly a wild

coincidence – everyone’s got several doubles in the world, she’d heard -- and if it wasn’t,

what had the woman told this young man or anyone about his father?

“Of course, it’s nothing, I’m sorry to bother you. You have a lovely bistrot.”

Harold translated and the woman blinked once in acknowledgement.

On impulse, Geneva pointed at the piano and said, “Je vais vous accompagner?”

Harold’s beamed. “Formidable!” He came around the bar.

Geneva seated herself on the wooden bench, opened the music book on the stand

and played a brief arpeggio introduction.

Harold’s voice was rich and he sang the swing tune, Seul Ce Soir, with gusto,

swaying his hips, miming a little dance.

From the corner of her eye, Geneva could tell that everyone in the bistrot had

turned to listen. Halfway through, one couple got up to dance.

When that song was over, Geneva turned the page to Boum!, another up tempo

number. Harold, his face flushed, turned to the room, gesturing them to come up or join

in. Marilyn, followed by a few others, joined Harold around the piano. Knowing no

French, Marilyn contented herself with humming, clapping in time and shifting from foot

to foot.

17

The Wide World Judith Sears 1.31.17

By the third song, a wizened gray-haired man took command of the center of the

floor, arms sawing determinedly at the air, enacting some inner choreography.

They kept going. When they got through the book of songs, they started back at

the first again. At some point, Marilyn opted for a glass of wine and then another and

another. It was rowdier than church, of course, but not as rowdy as Geneva had feared.

She liked the tunes and the smile on her face was wide.

Behind the bar, Harold’s mother watched attentively, a slight relaxation around

the corners of her eyes.

Geneva had lost track of time but she knew more than an hour had passed when

Harold asked her to rise from the piano stool. He opened the lid and pulled out sheet

music for one song, J’Attendrai. Geneva played and he sang:

J’attendrai le jour et la nuit

J’attendrai toujours ton retour

As she played, Geneva had began thinking in self-reproach, I didn’t wait night

and day, I didn’t wait forever, when she felt a hand on her shoulder and a voice

affirming:

J’attendrai le jour et la nuit

J’attendrai toujours ton retour

The bartender kept his hand on her shoulder as he sang the rest of the song. It

came to Geneva that Harold had waited for her. Waited to show her the world. Her smile

returned broader than ever and she felt only peace and that it must be everywhere.

18

The Wide World Judith Sears 1.31.17

Later in the evening, the party broke up with many smiles and gestures making do

for words between Geneva, Marilyn and the others.

“I feel as if I’ve played for a reunion,” Geneva said as she unlocked the car doors.

“Like a high school reunion except we didn’t know each other or even speak the same

language.”

Marilyn nodded, her eyes glassy. “Yes, uh-huh,” she said, but she looked

confused.

Geneva got them to their inn, closer to the center of Reims, and up to their room.

Marilyn, tipsy, chattered on in her random way. “I think I may have had one too many, I

hope you don’t mind. I lost track, but it was so unique, it was like you said, have you

ever? Who will believe it?”

Geneva murmured reassurance and agreement.

Marilyn took over the bathroom and when she left, Geneva sank on the twin bed.

The scenes from this afternoon and evening mingled before her eyes with those from

thirty years ago in some kaleidoscopic display.

When Marilyn came out, Geneva sat up.

“I know it’s crazy, but I hope it was his son,” she said.

Marilyn looked at her shyly, awareness returning to her eyes. She nodded twice.

“I hope he had an affair with that short, big breasted, frowning French woman –“

Marilyn snorted and they both laughed hysterically for a moment, their faces red,

saliva at the corners of their mouths.

“I hope he had an affair and a son. I know – I know this is foolishness.”

19

The Wide World Judith Sears 1.31.17

Marilyn was quiet. Geneva got up and brushed her teeth and put on her pajamas.

She turned out the light. Her twin bed faced the sky that Harold would have seen.

She stared up at it a long time. She knew that, basically, no, it was just a

coincidence and that bartender just looked like Harold. Period.

Still, it seemed to her that it might be possible to think that life was as inexorable

as death. She slept then, deeply.

The End

20