The Infirmary

Regret to Inform

56 r e G r e t t o i n f o r m When she came to it, at the very moment perhaps, of his dying, on the muddy slope of a hill there would never be a name for, or when it came to her—small difference for mother or boy—she picked his tshirt from the rag pile, soft from the washings, her foldings. she had shrunk it somehow, she remembered that, she had left it too long in the dryer, preoccupied as she had been with one thing or another. But she knew, there was no question about that. Before the telephone call, before the awful yellow telegram, before death peeked out the little window—she knew. The officer was up the walkway now, carrying his hat in his hands. sherushed tothe front porchand latched the screentokeephimoutand gestured with her hand, with her palm to stop him. When he paused— then started up the steps at her again she waved him away with the rag, she drove him off with that. you’d think she was shaking it out there on the porch, those little clouds of dust it made. it was the daughter who found her in the boy’s room, the dust rag still in her hand. she had the bed, the chair and desk, his pine dresser, she had them all to do. she was at the top of the dresser, making large sweeping circles with the rag, then smaller tighter ones, first against the grain, then back again and again, turning the rag over and over in her hand, making the large sweeping circles, then the smaller ones, so that her dusting might never be done. it was the daughter who went up to her and said, “That’s good, mother, that’s good enough,” and took the thing finally from her hand. ...