His great-aunt takes a sip of white wine, her eyes rounding into saucers.
He’s not sure what she heard him say. He leans forward, sorts through the crystal bowl of nuts set out for visitors, picking out the cashews, dividing the neglected Brazil nuts and pecans into a fresh heap. He leans back into the floral couch with a groan, rolling the nuts in his palm like dice before dealing each one into his mouth.
Her lips tighten into a small opening, her breath a steady whistle. She shakes her head slightly, brow creased. She takes another sip of wine as she rearranges the shortbread on the chipped china plate. Looking out the kitchen window, she counts the cars of a cargo train that has started to steam by outside.
Up to one hundred, how wonderful. She turns to her handsome young groom. One hundred, darling, how wonderful. She considers the fine lines of his cheekbones. Wonderful.
READER
Caucasian female, late 60s, wearing pink tank top, and white shorts.
Missing Mom
Joyce Carol Oates
(Ecco, 2006)
p 35