Gone Silent

Gone Silent by Barbara Presnell There were four generations of women in theroom, twoofthempacing, one, arms folded across her chest, the second chewing her right forefinger. The third, a little girl, agetwelve, wasperchedingrandma's ladder-back chair swinging herlegs to and fro, andthefourth satinarockingchairnot moving. "Grandma's gone silent," the little girl said. Her name was Molly, though she liked to be called Moll, for that was her great-grandmother's name. "Gone stubborn is more like it," her mother, Liza, said, unfolding her arms, placing her hands on the edge of grandma 's chair, and leaning at an angle so she might look into the old woman s eyes. "Happens to one every now and then, according to Dr. Bates," Mother Jean, Moll's grandmother, said. "Especially those her age." "She's not that old." "She's eighty-nine." Moll watched as her mother touched grandma'sforehead,pulledthe skinofher cheeks down, but the eyes within stared beyond her and beyond Mother Jean and possiblybeyondthewaUofherownliving room for all Moll could tell. "Grandma, can youhearme? Ifyoucan, nod yourhead or something. This is Liza, your granddaughter. Are you in there?" "It's no usetryingtopryherintotalking, Liza," Mother Jean said. "Dr. Bates says she'll talk when she's ready. Not before." Mother Jean, age 63, taught high school algebra and Moll knew that she trusted, without question, the word of a doctor as much as she trusted the word of God. Moll's mother, Liza, on the other hand, was a lawyer, and trusted neither. Mollgotupfromherseat. "MotherJean, don't you think Grandma must be hungry by now? Maybe that's what's wrong." "She didn't touch her lunch," Mother Jean replied. "If she were hungry, she would have eaten it by now." A toasted cheese sandwich sat on a plate onthecoffeetablebesidegrandma'schair. The crust of bread lay limp now on the plate and the cheese around the edges had oranged with exposure. Beside it, in a glass oftea notdrunk, a sliverofa remaining ice cube floated on the surface. Moll moved towards the still woman and squatted beside her. "Are you hungry, Grandma? Don't you want something good to eat?" "You'renotgonnagethertoansweryou, Moll," her mother said. The girl leaned closer to the old woman and whispered, "We're selling candy bars atschool. I'llgiveyouone, andyou'11only have to pay half if you don't tell." When grandma didn't answer, Moll slumped down into an easy chair beside 23 the hearth. She folded her legs under her and slid her hand from habit beneath the cushion. Grandpa's pockets used to bulge with change, and when he'd sleep in that chair, pennies and nickels would fall like dreams into its hidden folds. They'd be thereforMoll tofindon Sundayswhen she visited. But grandpa died years ago, and when Moll reached her hand down today, it came up empty. Grandma was watching her. Did grandma wink? Hereyelids were folds of skinnow, wrinkled,notthin andbrightlike they used to be, but the brown eyes within sparkled like Roman candles. Her hair was pulled back and held tight with bonecolored combs, but Moll had seen it once, long,thin, andgray. She'dwatchedgrandma s fingers, thin and gray like her hair, twisting it into braids and wrapping it again around her head. "You'd be so much cooler, Mother," Mother Jean had said, "if you'd let Ruby cut it short. And when you get old and can't put it up yourself ..." 'Tildomyownhair,"grandmahad said. "So many older women . . ." Mother Jean had begun, but grandma simply said, "I'll do my own hair." Moll saw now that the braid was loose and too far to the left, and a group of lone hairs hung rebeUiously over her ear. But she also saw that it was done, like always, and grandma had done it. Liza shuffled through her briefcase and found a pack of Virginia Slims. Her thin fingers brought out a cigarette which she placed between her teeth and lit with a pearl-handled lighter. Moll thought she saw grandma's eyes flicker as the flame jumped from the wick, but it was Mother Jean who spoke. "God, Liza, not in front of your grandmother ." Liza...