“Our mother . . .”
“Our darling . . .”
“Restored to us . . .”
“In all her dearness . . .”
Marian stood in front of the chair.
“Her glory . . .”
“Her beauty . . .”
“Her youth . . .”
She turned.
“Always with us . . .”
“Always . . .”
“Always . . .”
And sat.
“Always . . .”
She clutched the arms of the chair and felt the force of the hum not outside herself but in her, issuing forth and driving itself into the house and grounds, all the way down to the smallest bit of crystal, the tenderest green shoot. And somewhere beyond the chair there was the sound of a great door closing, on a vault, or a tomb.
They materialized as if by instinct almost immediately, the Allardyces and Walker. And went, with silent reverence, through all the rooms of their mother’s house, which had never looked so rich and shining and perfect.
“Not since last time anyway,” Brother said in his wheelchair.
They travelled over the grounds, as much of them as they could cover in a single day. The trees and shrubs were full, the grass the deepest green, and the house shone white and immaculate on the hill.
“Ah . . .” Roz said.
And whatever there was to mar the serenity of the scene, Walker was ordered to attend to.
The house was photographed from the angle of the wide field in front of it, to capture the moment of perfection, and eventually the picture was brought into the alcove between the living room and the greenhouse. Walker raised it to the wall filled with similar photographs, and then stopped and looked over his shoulder at Roz and Brother.
“There’s no more room on the wall,” he said.
“Well, make room,” Roz said, handing him the hammer and a picture hook. “What do we pay you for anyway?”
He stood on his toes and lifted the picture higher, beginning a new row on top of all the others.
“How’s that?” he asked.
“Fine,” said Brother.
Walker hung the picture in a position of prominence while Roz looked on approvingly, and Brother rose from his wheelchair to celebrate the moment.
Burnt Offerings (Valancourt 20th Century Classics) Page 25