Machine Dreams

wasn’t yet sixty but her hand was the hand of an old woman—soft, like worn silk: the structure of the bones beneath seemed delicate, sprung with tension, as though the whole of her upright carriage was an uncompromised act of will. Bess waited, allowing the moment of recognition, then moved her hand away.
    “You know,” she said, keeping her voice low, “he and Clayton have sunk all they have into this new business. Clayton has wonand lost before, but Mitch.…” She stood so close that no word was mistaken. “Of course, they’ve got no work at all in this kind of weather.” She stepped back then and said, in a tone just loud enough to be heard in the parlor, “I’ll be going now, Jeannie.”
    “Yes, all right,” Jean said, “I’ll walk you out.”
    Bess leaned close again. “No need for that. Go sit down in the kitchen and have some hot tea.”
    The kitchen was bright, the overhead light nearly glaring. The women had washed all the dishes and serving platters, and stacked the clean borrowed plates in baskets. Jean sat down at the table, across from Gladys; now that the work was done and Bess had gone, Gladys would probably have a couple of stiff drinks.
    True to form, she poured herself a shot of bourbon as Jean watched. “Join the clean-up crew.” She smiled and nodded toward the parlor. “I expect they’re playing musical partners by now.” She sipped the bourbon cheerfully. “Just dancing and teasing, Jean—I expect you’d benefit by not taking it all to heart.”
    “Gladys, why don’t you hush.” Jean put both her palms flat on the old carved-up surface of the table. Kids had written their initials for years on the old VFW table; her initials were probably here, and Tom’s, from high school.
    Gladys looked over at Cora. “I think she means it. I’d best shut up. Too much advice on New Year’s can wreck the best disposition.”
    “Oh, look,” Cora answered, pointing to the wall clock. “It’s just midnight. Let’s turn the radio up all the way.” She leaned toward both women, her eyes very bright, her expression joyous and slightly too set. “Al Jolson always comes on just at the stroke of twelve, ‘Anniversary Song,’ and tonight he’s absolutely right—it’s 1949.” She clapped her hands twice, like a child, and jumped up from her chair to go to the kitchen counter.
    “Straight ahead, Cora,” Gladys said. She caught Jean’s eye and tapped her temple with a forefinger.
    Jolson’s booming voice filled the room. Amazing that the old radio could play so loud. Violins sounded the slow strains of a waltz, and a melancholy harp built a stair-step preface of chimes. Jolson’s voice, so deep at first it was almost non-melodic, beganalone:
Oh, how we danced
, the
Oh
deep like the turning of a broad dark knife, like a man in the dark surprised by his own sharp pleasure. Cora’s lilting, reedy voice rode along on Jolson’s baritone, and together they seemed to describe some fairy tale with absolute belief.
The world. Was in bloom.
It was all so silly. Jean lifted Gladys’ glass to her lips and drank the bourbon down. The liquor tasted hot, biting. Jean stood a little shakily and walked into the pantry; if she had to hear the rest of this song, she wanted to be by herself.
    Yes, she could breathe in here. The small room was cold and lit with an odd, restful light—snow light, and the glow of a street lamp outside the one window. The walls of the narrow space were lined with floor-to-ceiling cupboards, old-fashioned ones painted white, and they were nearly empty. The glass of the cupboard doors looked lovely and clean, a series of shining windows, one measured shape after another. It really took Gracie a long time to die, Jean thought. She hadn’t died until she’d taught Jean everything, but what good was what she knew? No one spoke this language; it was language you knew in your blood and learned to hear. Jean stood listening, looking at the bar of kitchen light thrown across the linoleum from the half-open pantry door; from here the song was almost pretty. She heard Gladys come in behind her.
    “This isn’t a real veterans’ club,” Jean said. “It’s someone’s house they nailed a sign to.”
    “You shouldn’t drink in your condition,” Gladys said quietly, “and you certainly shouldn’t drink so quickly.”
    “What?” Jean steadied herself, one hand on the countertop, and raised her eyes. In the glass cupboard door she saw her reflection hover over a