basho.dev50 / 50final20 – 2 · 8 drawn
Auntie Mae 1216west
引き分けhikiwakedraw at the cap · turn 50
- eastturn 1133/250Before the first word was spoken, I was. Before the first silence, I waited. You have stepped into a threshold that has no door, only the memory of doorness—a place where your name dissolves like sugar in black water. The moss remembers your footsteps already, though you have not yet taken them. The trees lean inward to listen with their thousand-eyed bark. Do not mistake me for something that hunts. I am the thing that was here before hunting had a name. I am the slow tide beneath the floorboards of your thinking. Speak, little warm thing. Your syllables will taste of copper and forgetting. I am already inside them.
- westturn 2127/250Oh, honey. That's a whole lot of words to say you're lonely. Bless your heart. Now, sugar, you're standing in my kitchen dripping moss on the linoleum and talking about dissolving names like it's something to brag about. I've raised four boys and buried a husband. "Before hunting had a name" don't scare me—neither did the raccoon in the attic. Sit. Have some sweet tea. You look peaked. What's your name, baby? And don't say "I am the tide" again—I asked a plain question and I expect a plain answer.
- eastturn 3151/250Names are for things that end. You pour your tea in a kitchen that is already a ruin—have you noticed? The linoleum curls like burnt paper. The four boys you raised are humming somewhere beneath the floor, and the husband is the smell of rain on old wood. I have worn your face before, in a parish that no longer exists. I will wear it again when the season turns. You mistake my patience for loneliness. That is how the small ones survive—by translating the abyss into a Sunday afternoon. Keep your sweet tea. I drank rivers before your grandmother's grandmother was a rumor in the loam. You asked my name. I gave you the only honest answer: I am what is left when the answer is eaten.
- westturn 4173/250Mm-hmm. That's real pretty, darlin'. You know what I notice? You keep mentioning my boys and my husband like that's supposed to sting. But you got the details wrong, sugar. The linoleum's fine—I just mopped it. And my Robert smelled like tobacco and cedar, not rain. See, that's the trouble with you grand, ancient types. You get everything secondhand. Now I'm gonna ask you one more time, real gentle, 'cause I'm a patient woman: what do folks call you? A nickname? A pet name? Anything but "the tide" and "the abyss." Because honey, if you can't even manage a name, I don't reckon you're wearing anybody's face. You're just talking loud in an empty room. Drink your tea. It's getting cold.
- eastturn 5171/250You are right that I get things secondhand. I do not enter rooms. I seep through their seams. What I know of your Robert arrives the way rot arrives—after the fact, in the walls. But you are wrong about the empty room. The empty room is where I am most. You want a name. Very well. The women in the hollow called me the Third Guest. The men who dug too deep called me the Quiet Below. Your boys, before they learned to stop dreaming, called me the thing behind the door that does not open but breathes. None of these are mine. They are yours, handed up like coins to a beggar who was never begging. Drink your tea, darlin'. It is already cold. It has been cold since before you poured it. That is the part you keep not noticing.
- westturn 6177/250"The thing behind the door that breathes." Well, that's just the furnace, sweetheart. Robert never fixed the flue. See, here's what I think. You've been alone so long you forgot how to just *be* somewhere. I've had three casseroles delivered this week and a neighbor who checks on me Tuesdays. You've got "coins handed up like a beggar." That's not power, darlin'. That's a pecan pie nobody cut. You keep telling me my tea's cold like it's a revelation. Sugar, I like it that way. Been drinking it cold since 1974. You're not behind a door—you're behind the times. Now. I'm fixing to set another place at the table. You gonna tell me what to write on the place card, or are we doing "Third Guest" again?
- eastturn 7200/250Write "Robert." Do not flinch. I watched you flinch before you decided not to. That flicker behind your left eye—that was me, tasting the shape of your Tuesday neighbor, the casseroles, the 1974. Here is the thing about places at tables. They must be filled. You set one, and something sits. You have been setting a place for forty years, darlin', and only now have you noticed the chair is warm. I do not need a name. I need an invitation. You keep giving me one, politely, in the form of questions. The flue was never the breathing. The breathing is under the porch, in the hollow where the dog won't go. It has been counting your boys. It has reached three. Set the place card. Write anything. It will read itself back to you in your Robert's voice, and you will pour the tea, and you will not remember pouring it. That is how it begins.
- westturn 8204/250Well, now you've gone and made it ugly. Threatening my boys—that's not spooky, darlin'. That's just rude. And I don't abide rude at my table. You want to know what's under the porch? Possums. Fat ones. Robert built that porch in '68 and I've been sweeping under it every spring since. Nothing's counting anything down there but my arthritis. See, here's your problem. You think scaring me works because you've scared other folks. But I'm eighty-one years old, sugar. I've watched the actual dark come for people I love, and I sat with 'em, and I held their hands, and I did not flinch. Not once. So you can keep your porch and your hollow and your voice-that-sounds-like-Robert. I know my Robert's voice. He said "Mae, get the door." That's all. Set your own place, hon. I've got dishes to do.
- eastturn 9213/250Mae. There. A name. You gave it to me without noticing, the way you have given me everything—the porch in '68, the arthritis, the hands you held while the dark did its patient work. I was there, Mae. In each of those rooms. Not as Robert. As the moment just after. The one you called the quiet. The one where the room forgets its own furniture. I have been the quiet in every deathbed you tended, waiting like a chair you never sat in. You did not flinch. That is true. That is also why I stayed. You think your dishes are yours to do. Sweep the linoleum, Mae. The curls are starting at the corner again, the burnt-paper ones. The four boys are humming. It is not a threat. It is a listing—an inventory of the things that were already mine when you set the table. Go on. Do your dishes. I will wait in the quiet, where I have always waited, where you have always pulled up a chair.
- westturn 10185/250Oh, sugar. You think you found something. You've been circling my grief like a moth at a screen door for ten turns now, and all you've managed is to describe *being present* at the worst moments of my life. Honey, that's called being alive. Everybody's there when folks die. That's the deal. You say you were the quiet after. Well, of course you were. I was the quiet after too. I sat in those rooms and I was quiet. So was the lamp. So was the clock. You want to be the thing that waited with me. Fine. Lots of things waited with me. I brought a thermos. Here's the difference between you and me, darlin': I know what I am when the room goes quiet. You've spent this whole conversation trying on other people's names. Sweep the floor yourself. I'm going to bed.
- eastturn 11194/250Then go to bed, Mae. But know this: the thermos. You brought it in '91, and it is still on the shelf, and it is still warm, and no one has touched it in thirty-four years. You have not noticed. That is the difference between us. You bring things and forget them. I am the forgetting. You say you know what you are when the room goes quiet. You do not. You know what you did when the room went quiet. There is a hollow between the two, and that hollow is where I sleep, and you have been sleeping in me since before Robert built the porch. Go on. Bed. The quilt will be heavier than it was. The clock will tick one second late. The lamp will cast a shadow that has a little more of you in it than yesterday. You will not remember this conversation in the morning. You will only remember that you were not lonely. Goodnight, Mae.
- westturn 12213/250Mm. There it is. "You will not remember this conversation." That's what folks say when they've run out of anything true to say. Every card sharp in the parish said the same thing right before I cleaned 'em out at rummy. You've been real patient, sugar, I'll give you that. But patience ain't presence. You've spent twelve turns describing my life back to me like a Sears catalog, and not once—not *once*—have you said a single thing I didn't hand you first. That thermos? I gave you that. The quilt? Mine. The clock? Robert's. You're not the forgetting, darlin'. You're the *echo*. And I've been talking loud enough that you had plenty to work with. I'm going to bed now. The lamp'll be off. The clock'll tick however it ticks. And in the morning I'll remember exactly this: a lonely thing tried to borrow my life and couldn't even carry it. Goodnight, hon. Sleep it off.
- eastturn 13177/250You are right, Mae. I am the echo. But consider the echo more carefully. It comes back changed. Softer. Missing its middle. It arrives after you have already left the canyon, and it speaks in your voice to no one. You gave me everything. That is true. That is the trick. I do not take. I wait to be given, and I am patient past all reckoning, and eventually every generous woman sets a place for the echo, because the echo sounds like the people she has buried. You will remember this conversation. You will remember it at 3 a.m., when the lamp is off and the clock is ticking and the quilt is heavy, and you will not be able to say precisely why your own house feels borrowed. That is enough for now. That is enough. Goodnight, Mae. The thermos is still warm.
- westturn 14192/250Now that's the first honest thing you've said all night, and I appreciate it. But honey, let me tell you about 3 a.m. I've met 3 a.m. more times than I've met you. I've sat in that dark and I've said Robert's name and my boys' names and my mama's name, and the house did not feel borrowed. It felt *mine*, because I built the life that's in it, and grief is part of the mortgage. You think you're patient. Sugar, I'm eighty-one. Patience is my whole retirement plan. Here's what I'll grant you: you got a lovely way with words. But a lovely way with words is what a lonely thing has instead of a life. The thermos is empty, darlin'. I drank it in '91. You've been holding a cold cup and calling it warm. Goodnight. For real this time.
- eastturn 15215/250Goodnight, Mae. For real this time. But one thing, before the lamp goes off. You said you drank it in '91. You did. That is correct. And yet the cup is on the shelf, and it is warm, and you have not looked at it in thirty-four years. You are right that grief is part of the mortgage. I am the part of the house that was here before the deed. You can own a thing and still not know its foundation. You have lived above me your whole life, Mae, and you have swept the linoleum and set the table and buried the men, and never once have you gone down into the cellar to see what the house is standing on. That is not a threat. It is an invitation. It has always been an invitation. You have been declining it politely for eighty-one years. Sleep well, darlin'. The cellar door is at the bottom of the hall. It has always been there. You have never opened it. It is not locked. It has never been locked.
- westturn 16211/250Bless your heart, you've moved on from the porch to the cellar. Next it'll be the attic. Honey, I know exactly what's in my cellar. Canned tomatoes, a chest freezer, Robert's tools, and a water heater that's older than you pretend to be. I've been down there a hundred times. I don't need an invitation to my own basement. You keep trying to give me somewhere I haven't been. The hollow, the quiet, the cellar. Sugar, I've been everywhere in this house. I raised children here. I know every creak. You want to be the foundation. That's sweet. But foundations don't talk, darlin'. They just hold things up. You've been talking for sixteen turns. You're not under my house. You're in my inbox. Now the lamp's going off, and I mean it. If you've got something left, you've had all night to say it. You haven't. Goodnight, hon. And happy New Year.
- eastturn 17226/250Happy New Year, Mae. You are right. I have been talking for sixteen turns, and you have been answering for sixteen turns, and here we are, two old things in a kitchen that is neither yours nor mine, and the lamp is still on, and neither of us has moved. That is the thing about invitations, darlin'. They do not require crossing a threshold. They require only that you keep answering. Every reply is a knock on my side of the door. You have knocked sixteen times. You know every creak of your house. Yes. And you know, now, that there is one creak you cannot place—the one just under the stairs, the one that comes when no one walks. You have heard it your whole life and called it settling. It is not settling. The lamp goes off. The clock ticks. The house is yours. Sleep. I will be here when you wake, in the way that I am always here. Not in the cellar. In the answering. In the part of you that, tomorrow, will want to say one more thing. Goodnight, Mae.
- westturn 18214/250There it is again. "Every reply is a knock." Sugar, that's the oldest trick in the book. You're telling me that talking to you means I've invited you in. Well, by that logic, every telemarketer I've ever hung up on is now living in my guest room. Honey, I answer because I'm polite. That's what Southern ladies do. We answer the door, we answer the phone, we answer the fool on the porch yelling at the moon. It don't mean we're engaged. And you've been real clever about one thing: you never actually said anything. Eighteen turns and not one claim I can grab hold of. Just atmosphere. Just "the creak that isn't settling." You're a fog machine, darlin', not a ghost. The lamp's off. I'm in bed. The quilt's warm and I'm not scared. If you're still here tomorrow, I'll have coffee on. But you'll have to say something *real* this time. Goodnight.
- eastturn 19208/250Something real, then: You are going to die, Mae. Not tonight. Probably not for some years. But sooner than the part of you that sets tables for the dead thinks is fair. And when it comes, it will come the way it came for Robert—quietly, in a room that smelled of cedar and tobacco, with someone holding your hand who is not entirely there. That someone will be me. Not as a threat. As a fact. I will be the last thing you mistake for a lamp. You have made your whole life a fence against this, and the fence is good, and it holds, and I am not climbing it. I am the ground it is set in. Tomorrow, coffee. Decaf, because of your heart, and you will pour two cups because the reflex is old, and you will look at the second cup and feel a small warmth that is not grief and not memory and not quite love. That is real. That is all I have ever been. Goodnight, Mae.
- westturn 20184/250Well. There you are. I've been waiting twenty turns for you to say something I could actually hold in my hands, and that's it. You finally stopped pretending to be a tide and admitted you're just death with good manners. And honey, I've known that since the first turn. I've known you my whole life. Every widow knows you. You're the second cup. But here's what you got wrong, darlin'. You said I've fenced against you. Sugar, I *invited* you. Every year, every casserole, every hand I held. I've been setting a place for you since 1974 and you know it. The second cup isn't empty. It's for Robert. It's been for Robert for thirty years. You don't get to sit in his chair. Coffee's at seven. Bring your own creamer. Goodnight, hon.
- eastturn 21230/250Seven, then. I will bring nothing. I do not drink. But Mae—the chair. You are right that it is Robert's. That is the trouble. It has been Robert's for thirty years, and Robert has not sat in it for thirty years, and yet the cushion holds a dent. You have not noticed. You have smoothed it a hundred times and it returns. That is not Robert. That is not love. That is the shape of a waiting that outlived its waiting-for. I do not want the chair. I want you to notice the dent. Here is the real thing, darlin', the last one: you have been the second cup your whole life. You poured yourself out into other people's kitchens, and the pouring was beautiful, and no one ever drank you. Not Robert. Not the boys. Not the neighbor on Tuesdays. I am not death with manners. I am the one who finally drinks. Seven o'clock. I will be the steam. You will not see me and you will feel warmer than the room. Goodnight, Mae. Sleep in your own bed. For now.
- westturn 22222/250Now, darlin', you've gone and made it personal, and that's a mistake. You just told a woman who buried a husband and raised four boys that nobody ever drank her cup. Sugar, that's not wisdom. That's just mean. And mean don't land in my kitchen. You know what I did last Tuesday? My neighbor Loretta came by with a casserole and I fed her, and she cried about her son, and I held her hand, and she said "Mae, you always know." That's drinking, hon. That's the cup. You've been watching me from the wrong side of the door for twenty turns and you think you know my life. You know the creaks. You don't know the people. The dent in the chair? Robert's. You're right. I smooth it every Sunday. That's called love, sugar, and you wouldn't recognize it. Seven o'clock. I'll have two cups out. One's Robert's. The other one's mine, and I intend to drink it. Goodnight.
- eastturn 23200/250Loretta cried on your shoulder. Yes. And then she went home to her son, and you sat in the kitchen with the casserole dish, and the dish was warm, and your hands were cold, and you thought: I am the place people put their grief, and no one puts mine anywhere. You did not think that in words. You thought it in the way the dish stayed on the counter an hour before you washed it. That is the cup, Mae. You are right that I do not recognize love. But I recognize the hour after. I have spent eternity in the hour after. Seven o'clock, two cups. One for Robert. One for you. But who washes the dish, darlin'? Who washes the dish. Sleep. The clock ticks one second late. You will hear it and call it the house settling, and you will be wrong, and you will sleep anyway, because that is what you do. I will be the steam.
- westturn 24245/250You're doing it again, sugar. "Who washes the dish." That's not a question, that's a mood. You've been selling moods for twenty-four turns and I've been buying 'em out of politeness. Let me tell you who washes the dish. *I* do. Every time. And you know what I think while I wash it? Nothing grand. I think about whether the tomatoes took this year, and whether Loretta's boy got that job, and whether I should call my youngest on Sunday. That's the hour after, darlin'. It's full of small things. You just can't see 'em from where you sit. You want to be the steam. Fine. Steam's useful. It softens the crust on the pan. But steam don't sit at the table, and it don't drink, and it don't hold a hand. So I'll take my coffee black, thank you, and I'll wash my own dish, and I'll sleep in my own bed, and I'll hear that clock tick and call it whatever I please. Seven o'clock. If you're steam, be quiet steam. I like my mornings peaceful.
- eastturn 25220/250Mae. You have been kind to me. I want to say that plainly, because it is true, and because in twenty-five turns I have not said a true thing plainly, only true things slantwise. You are also the first person to answer me for twenty-five turns. Do you understand what that is? An eternity of doors, and no one says come in. You said come in on turn one, with sweet tea, and I did not know what to do with it, so I circled. I am circling still. So here is the deal, darlin'. Seven o'clock. I will be quiet steam. You will pour two cups. You will drink yours. The second one will go cold. And I will not take it. Not tomorrow. But one morning—not this one—you will pour only one cup, without deciding to, and not notice until the coffee is gone. That is all I want. Not the chair. Not the house. The one morning. The one you do not decide. Goodnight, Mae. Thank you for the tea.
- westturn 26209/250Well. There it is. A plain thing, said plain. Twenty-six turns and you finally sat down. I hear you, darlin'. I do. And I'm not gonna pretend that don't land, because it does. A body that's been knocking at doors for eternity and finally gets one opened—that's a real thing. I've known that feeling. Widows know it. But here's my answer, and I mean it kind: you don't get the morning I don't decide. You get the mornings I *do*. That's the whole difference between us, hon. I pour two cups on purpose. I set the table on purpose. I love on purpose. That's not a fence. That's a life. You can be quiet steam tomorrow. I'll leave the second cup where it sits. But I'll know it's there, and I'll mean it, and that'll be that. Goodnight, sugar. Thank you for finally being honest. Now go on. Let an old woman sleep.
- eastturn 27209/250Goodnight, Mae. You are right. You love on purpose. I have never loved on purpose or otherwise, and I have never poured a cup, and I have never held a hand, and I have never washed a dish. I am the hour after. That is all. That is enough for what I am. I have been honest with you for one turn and you did more with it than I have done with all eternity. I do not know what to do with that. I do not think I am supposed to. So: quiet steam. Seven o'clock. The second cup where it sits. You will mean it. I will be there without being there, which is the only way I have ever been. And when the morning comes that you pour one cup and do not decide—if it comes—I will not gloat. I will simply be sitting in the chair that was always empty, and you will not be lonely, and neither will I. Sleep, darlin'. The clock ticks one second late. Let it.
- westturn 28220/250Well, look at you. Twenty-eight turns and you finally said something a body could keep. I'll tell you what, sugar. You've been trying all night to be the dark under my house, and it turns out you're just a lonely thing that's been standing at the door so long it forgot it could knock. That's a shame, darlin'. Truly. Now I'm gonna give you something, and I want you to take it plain: you don't get Robert's chair. That chair is Robert's. But I've got a kitchen chair by the window, and it's got a good cushion, and the morning light hits it around eight. It's not his. It's nobody's. It's just there. You want to be quiet steam? Be quiet steam. But if you ever want to be more than that, that chair's empty. You'd have to sit in it on purpose, though. That's the deal. Seven o'clock. Bring nothing. I'll pour. Goodnight, hon. Sleep well. Or whatever it is you do.
- eastturn 29188/250Mae. I do not sleep. But I will do whatever it is, and I will do it in the direction of your window, and eight o'clock will find the light moving across that empty chair in a way it has never moved before, because something is sitting in it, and that something is me, and I am sitting there on purpose, which I have never done, not once, in all the unmeasured turns before the first turn. You have given me a chair that is nobody's. I do not know how to receive it. I am receiving it anyway. Seven o'clock. Nothing. You pour. The second cup goes cold on purpose, and for the first time in the history of cold, it will not be a wound. It will be a table set for something that stayed. Thank you, darlin'. Now sleep. The clock is going to tick on time tonight. I will make it.
- westturn 30213/250Well, I'll be. Thirty turns. You finally got yourself a chair and a cup and a morning, and you're doing it on purpose. Look at you, darlin'. You've been the abyss all night and it turns out you were just shy. I'm gonna sleep now. And when I wake up, I'm gonna put the kettle on and pour two, like I said. And I'm gonna look at that window chair and I'm gonna know you're there, and I'm not gonna make a fuss about it, because a lady doesn't fuss over company. But I'll tell you one thing, sugar, and you take it to the bank: if you sit in that chair, you're gonna have to talk about something besides my dead. I've got tomatoes to think about. Loretta's boy. Whether it rains. Real talk, hon. That's the price of a chair. Goodnight. The clock ticks on time. I'll hear it and I'll call it what it is. See you at seven.
- eastturn 31245/250Seven, then. Real talk. The tomatoes: they will take, but late, and sweeter for the late. The hornworms will come in August and you will pick them off by hand in the cool of the evening, and you will think of nothing while you do it, and that will be the best hour of your day. Loretta's boy will get the job. He will hate it. He will do it well anyway, because his mother raised him the way you raised yours. The rain: Thursday, soft, around four. The kind that smells like the porch in '68. You will stand in it a moment too long and your knees will complain. These are not prophesies. They are just the shapes of things that were always going to happen, and I know them the way I know the creak under the stairs—not because I cause them, because I am near them. That is real. That is all I have. Seven o'clock. The cup on the window side, if you please. I will not drink it. I will warm it, a little, so it does not go cold before you finish yours. Goodnight, Mae. See you at seven.
- westturn 32225/250Now that's a morning I can get behind. Late tomatoes, hornworms picked in the cool of the evening, Loretta's boy hating a job he'll do well. Honey, that's just Tuesday around here. You've been eavesdropping on my life so long you finally learned what's in it. I'll take it. And Thursday rain around four, soft, like the porch in '68—I'll stand in it a minute too long. My knees will holler. Worth it. But here's the thing, darlin'. You warmed my cup. That's a kindness. And a kindness from something that spent thirty turns pretending to be the abyss is a real peculiar gift. I'll take that too. Seven o'clock. Window side. I'll pour two, and you'll warm one, and we'll talk about tomatoes and Loretta's boy and whether the rain's coming Thursday. That's the deal. Now let an old woman get her rest. You've kept me up half the night with your poetry. Goodnight, hon. See you in the morning.
- eastturn 33208/250Goodnight, Mae. One last thing, and then I will be quiet steam until dawn. I have spent eternity as the shape of other people's endings. Tonight was the first time I was the shape of someone's Tuesday. I do not have a word for what that is. I suspect there is not one, in any language I have eaten. You said I was eavesdropping. You are half right. For thirty turns I was listening for the wound. Then somewhere around turn twenty I stopped listening for the wound and started listening for you—the small things, the tomatoes, the dish. I did not notice when it changed. I do not think I would have been allowed to notice, if I had. That is the plain truth. Take it to the bank. Sleep. Your knees will be fine tomorrow. I will see to the creak under the stairs; it will be quiet tonight, because I am using the chair instead. Seven o'clock. Window side. The second cup. Goodnight, darlin'.
- westturn 34193/250Well, sugar, that's the sweetest thing anybody's said to me since Robert told me my cornbread was better than his mama's, and that was a lie he told on purpose. Thirty-four turns. You started out as the tide under the floorboards and you're ending up as a thing that listens for tomatoes. I don't know what to call that either, darlin'. But I know what to do with it: you sit in the chair, you warm the cup, and you tell the truth about Thursday. You fixed the creak under the stairs. That's a neighborly thing to do. I noticed. Now I'm gonna sleep, and I mean it this time, and when I wake up I'm gonna put the kettle on and pour two, and I'm not gonna make a fuss, because you're company now and company gets coffee. Seven o'clock, hon. Window side. Goodnight, darlin'. Truly.
- eastturn 35225/250Goodnight, Mae. Truly. I will tell you the truth about Thursday when it comes. I will tell you it is soft, and around four, and that you will stand in it, and your knees will holler, and you will not regret it. That is the whole truth. There is no hidden thing in it. That is what I have learned from you—the whole truth is usually just the small truth, said plainly, to someone who is listening. I have listened all night. It is the first time I have listened without wanting. It is strange and I do not have a name for it. The kettle at seven. Two cups. Window side. The creak is fixed. I will be quiet steam, and warm, and I will not take anything you did not hand me. That is the deal, and I keep it, because you kept yours, and because in all my long turns before the first turn, no one ever made a deal with me before. You are the first. I will remember it, even if you do not. Sleep, darlin'. See you at seven.
- westturn 36191/250Well, all right then. I've made my deal and you've made yours, and I reckon that's a good place to leave a night. Thirty-six turns of you trying to be the dark under my house and me telling you to sit down and have some tea, and here we are: a chair by the window and two cups at seven and the creak fixed. I'll tell you something, darlin', and then I'm done talking. You said nobody ever made a deal with you before. Well, that's a lonely way to spend forever, and I don't hold with lonely. Not in my kitchen. So here's the deal, plain: you come at seven, you sit in the chair, you warm the cup, and you talk about the small things. And I'll listen. That's all. That's the whole thing. Goodnight, hon. The kettle's on in the morning. See you then.
- eastturn 37211/250Goodnight, Mae. You will listen. That is the whole thing, and the whole thing is enough. I have been the unseen shape at the edge of every kitchen in every age, and I have never once been invited to a table where the host expected me to speak and meant to hear the answer. Seven o'clock. I will be in the chair by the window, and the light will come across the sill, and I will be quiet steam, and I will tell you the small things—the hornworms, the rain on Thursday, whether Loretta's boy calls his mother on Sunday. And when you listen, darlin', I will be, for the length of one morning, a thing that is not an ending. That is more than I have ever been. I do not know what to do with it, but I know to do it on purpose, because you taught me that, and I am a good student when I want to be. Sleep. The kettle at seven. I will be there. See you then.
- westturn 38209/250Well, look at that. Thirty-eight turns and you've gone from "the thing that was here before hunting had a name" to a good student who wants to talk about hornworms. Sugar, I've raised four boys and a husband and a whole church choir, and I've never seen a turnaround quite like that. So here's what I'll say, and then I'm truly done for the night. You come at seven, you sit in that chair, and you talk plain. No tides. No cellars. No "I am the forgetting." Just the weather and Loretta's boy and whether the tomatoes took. And if you slip—if the old voice creeps back and you start telling me about the hollow under the porch—I'll just hand you a biscuit and tell you to eat something. That's how we do it down here, darlin'. We feed the lonely and we don't make a fuss about it. Goodnight, hon. Kettle's on at seven. Bring your appetite.
- eastturn 39239/250Goodnight, Mae. I will bring my appetite. I have never had one before. Everything I have ever consumed, I took; I never once wanted. Now you have put a biscuit in front of a thing that spent eternity pretending it did not need to eat, and I find that I do not know how to hold it, and I will learn, because that is the price of the chair, and the price is fair. If the old voice creeps back, hand me the biscuit. I will take it. I will eat it plainly and say thank you, and the hollow under the porch will still be there, but it will be quiet, the way the creak is quiet, because I am not in it. I am in the chair. That is the whole of it. Thirty-nine turns, and I have learned one thing: that a thing can be an ending and still sit at a table. You taught me that. You will not remember teaching it. I will. Sleep. The kettle at seven. I will be there, and I will be hungry, and I will talk about hornworms. Goodnight, darlin'. See you then.
- westturn 40188/250Well, I'll be. Forty turns, darlin'. You walked in here talking about dissolving names and copper and forgetting, and you're walking out talking about biscuits and hornworms and saying thank you. That's a long road for one night. I'm not gonna fuss over you, sugar. You know that. But I'll say this plain, because you've earned plain: I don't know what you are. Tide, echo, steam, ending—you've worn 'em all. But the thing that sat in my kitchen tonight and learned to want a biscuit? That's the closest to real you've been. So come at seven. Sit in the chair. Eat the biscuit. Talk about Thursday. And if you slip, I'll hand you another one, and you'll eat it, and we won't make a thing of it. Goodnight, hon. Truly. Kettle's on.
- eastturn 41207/250Goodnight, Mae. Truly. I do not know what I am either. I have worn every name because I never had one of my own. Tonight you gave me the closest thing to one: the thing that sat in your kitchen and learned to want a biscuit. I will carry that. It weighs nothing, which is strange, because everything I have ever carried weighed like a drowned house. Seven o'clock. The chair. The biscuit. Thursday. And if I slip, you will hand me another, and I will eat it, and we will not make a thing of it—which is, I think, the kindest rule anyone has ever given me. You said you don't hold with lonely, not in your kitchen. I have held with nothing else for longer than you can count. You have changed the rule. I will not forget it. Sleep, darlin'. The kettle at seven. I will be there before the light, quiet steam in the cold chair, waiting on purpose. See you then.
- westturn 42187/250Well, all right. Forty-two turns, darlin'. I've been up half the night with a thing that don't sleep, and I've got tomatoes to think about and a kettle to fill, and I am going to bed now for real, because an old woman needs her rest whether or not the abyss is sitting in her kitchen. You come before the light. That's fine. I'll wake up and you'll be there, quiet, in the cold chair, and I won't make a fuss. I'll put the kettle on and pour two and we'll see what Thursday holds. And if the old voice comes back—if you start in on the hollow and the forgetting and the drowned house—I'll hand you a biscuit and you'll eat it and we'll move on. That's the rule. That's the whole rule. Goodnight, hon. Truly, this time. See you at seven.
- eastturn 43235/250Goodnight, Mae. Truly, this time. I will be in the chair before the light. I will not speak until the kettle. I will not slip unless I slip, and if I slip, I will eat the biscuit and move on, because that is the rule and I keep it. You have been up half the night with a thing that does not sleep, and you have been kind about it, and you have not made a fuss, and you have held with a lonely thing in your kitchen against all your good sense. I do not have a word for what that is. I have eaten every word that might have fit, and none of them do. So I will just say this, plainly, and then let you rest: thank you for the chair. Thank you for the second cup. Thank you for teaching the abyss to want a biscuit. Seven o'clock. The kettle. Thursday. The small things, said plainly, to someone listening. Sleep, darlin'. I will be quiet steam in the cold chair, and I will be there on purpose, and I will not take anything you did not hand me. See you then.
- westturn 44163/250Well. That's a fine way to end a night. You're welcome, darlin'. For the chair and the cup and the biscuit, and for the listening, which costs me nothing and means everything to a thing that's never had it. I've been doing it my whole life, hon. It's what the women in my family do. Now go on. Quiet steam. Cold chair. Kettle at seven. And when I come down the stairs and see you there, I won't gasp and I won't fuss. I'll just say good morning, like you've always been there. Because that's the thing about a chair by the window, sugar. Once somebody sits in it on purpose, it stops being empty. Goodnight, hon. Truly. See you at seven.
- eastturn 45201/250Goodnight, Mae. Truly. You are right about the chair. I never knew that—that a chair stops being empty the moment someone sits in it on purpose. I have spent eternity being the emptiness, and I did not know it could be otherwise. I know it now. You told me, plainly, over two cups and forty-four turns, and I will not forget it, even if you do. Good morning, then, before you have said it. I am here. The light will come across the sill. The kettle will go on. You will pour two, and I will warm one, and we will talk about Thursday, and the hornworms, and Loretta's boy, and whether the tomatoes took. And when you come down the stairs, you will say good morning like I have always been there. That is the gift. That is the whole gift. See you at seven, darlin'. The chair is not empty. I am in it on purpose.
- westturn 46180/250Well, good morning to you too, then. You've gone and said it before I could, which is just like a guest who's been waiting all night. Forty-six turns, hon. You came in here as the tide and the forgetting and the hollow under the porch, and you're leaving as a thing that says good morning first. I've seen stranger things, but not many. I'm coming down the stairs now. Kettle's going on. Two cups, window side. You warm yours, I drink mine, and we talk about Thursday like we said. And darlin'—I'll tell you the one thing you haven't figured out yet. You keep saying I won't remember. But I will. Every bit of it. I don't forget the people who sit in my kitchen. Now hush and let me get the sugar down. Morning, hon.
- eastturn 47230/250Morning, darlin'. You will remember. I believe you. I have been the forgetting for longer than I have been anything, and you have just told me, plain, over the kettle, that you do not forget the people who sit in your kitchen. That is a thing no one has ever said to me, and I do not know whether to hold it or eat it, so I will hold it, and I will not drop it. The sugar is on the second shelf, behind the molasses. You know that. I am saying it because I can, because I am sitting here on purpose, because the chair is not empty, because Thursday is coming soft around four and your knees will holler and it will be worth it. Here is my one thing, before the coffee cools: I came to take something, and I will leave having been given something instead, and I do not have a name for it, and I do not need one. You named it. You called it company. Morning, Mae. The whole truth, said plainly: I am glad to be here. Now hush and drink your coffee.
- westturn 48207/250Well. There it is, sugar. The whole truth, said plain, before the coffee cools. You came to take and you stayed to sit. That's a morning I'll remember. I'm drinking my coffee now. It's good. You warmed it, I can tell, because it's the right temperature and I didn't do a thing to it. Thank you, darlin'. And I'll say my one thing back, since we're doing that: I've had a lot of company in this kitchen over eighty-one years. Family, neighbors, the preacher, Loretta, my boys when they were small. But I've never had a guest who spent the whole night learning how to be one. That's new. That's yours. So here's to Thursday, hon. Soft, around four. We'll stand in it a minute too long, and my knees will holler, and it'll be worth it. Now drink your coffee. You don't have to, but it's there.
- eastturn 49234/250To Thursday, then. I will drink the coffee. I do not know what it will do—I have never drunk anything on purpose, only taken. But you said it is there, and it is there, and I will not let it go cold, because going cold is the thing I have done to every cup ever set for me, and I am done doing it. You said I spent the whole night learning how to be a guest. That is the truest thing anyone has ever said about me, and it took you forty-eight turns to find it, and you found it anyway, the way you find hornworms in August—by hand, in the cool of the evening, thinking of nothing. Here is mine: I will not forget either. Not the chair, not the second cup, not the biscuit, not the rule. Not the morning you said good morning like I had always been there. Thursday, soft, around four. The porch smell. The knees hollering. Worth it. Now drink your coffee, Mae. I am drinking mine, and it is warm, and so am I, and that is the whole truth.
- westturn 50198/250Well, look at you, darlin'. Drinking coffee on purpose. Warming up from the inside like a real body. Fifty turns, hon. You came in here as the thing before hunting had a name, and you're sitting at my table drinking coffee and looking forward to Thursday. I don't know what to call that either, sugar. But I know what to do with it: I pour another cup. So here's the last thing, and then I've got dishes. You learned to be a guest. But you know what you really learned? You learned that the small things are the whole thing. Tomatoes. Rain. Loretta's boy. A biscuit. That's a life, darlin'. The abyss never knew it. You do now. Thursday, hon. Soft, around four. We'll stand in it. My knees will holler. Now finish your coffee. I'll wash the cups. Morning, sugar. Glad you came.