The Wingback Chair

Mrs. Anbel is standing on the corner of Third Avenue and Wendell Street, looking down to the middle of the block where Mrs. Walker has just disappeared into Portnoy's Pharmacy. Mrs. Anbel is of that indeterminate age people get to after retirement and before begining the fall down the last precipitous slope toward death. Her hair, usually hidden beneath a scarf or muffler, no longer has a specific color; most people would say it is grey. Mrs. Anbel has a kind smile for well behaved children, people who are nice, and animals. It is not a broad smile, it doesn't krinkle up the skin around her once clear brown eyes. In her clothes she is of uniform dimension except for her head and her feet.

A dog is standing at the curb, looking down into the gutter where receipts and little white bags imprinted with "Portnoy's Pharmacy" and that little sword with the snake curling around it are clustered around a storm drain grating. The dog is of average size. It has ears that stick up mostly, curling over only at the ends, with longish tufts of curly hair that point in the same direction the dog is looking. The dog's tail curves up over its hindquarters, with short feathers that bush out over the upper half. It has no collar, not even a vestige left in matted neck hair. It has inquisitive eyes. There is a splotch of white on its chest, disturbing the otherwise uniformly brown curly coat.

The dog does not belong to Mrs. Walker. Mrs. Walker would not own a dog. The dog is not anyone's really. It might have been someone's at some time. It is not underfed.

Mrs. Anbel crosses the street, walking carefully along the sidewalk to catch Mrs. Walker coming out of the pharmacy.

"Mrs. Walker, that's a fine dog you have there. What's her name?

"What?"

"Your dog, what's her name? Here girl!" Mrs. Anbel pats at her brown wool skirt, trying to draw the dog to her with little kissing sounds. The expression on Mrs. Walker's face might have come from a television commercial for hemorhoids or the heartbreak of psoriasis.

"It is not my dog!" she says, confirmed in her suspicion that Mrs. Anbel is suffering from the infirmities of age. "I've never seen it before. Excuse me, good day!"

"Oh, good day to you Mrs. Walker."

The dog is watching this exchange, eyebrows raised, mouth open slightly, tongue hanging only barely over its lower lip. As Mrs. Walker moves off, flats popping off her heels slightly at each step, the dog moves across the sidewalk to sniff, stretch-necked, at Mrs. Anbel's outheld hand.

"What's your name doggie?" kiss, kiss.

The dog's cold nose investigates Mrs. Anbel's hand, leaving trails of dampness across her palm and fingers. A little salt or perhaps a bit of grease missed from Mrs. Anbel's bacon at breakfast attracts the dog's interest enough to prompt a lick that Mrs. Anbel takes as a sign of friendly intent. The dog doesn't run off when Mrs. Anbel pats its head.

"Well, I guess you don't belong to anyone. I wish I could take you home, but I'm not allowed to have pets in my apartment. You certainly are a nice pooch."

The dog is wagging its tail now, and Mrs. Anbel is begining to worry that she has gone too far. She continues to pet the dog, scratching the fur behind its ears, fur that leaves little brown deposits on the tips of Mrs. Anbel's fingers.

"Well, goodbye," she says in a tone she hopes sounds final, "I hope you find someone to take you in. Be careful, people drive their cars crazy around here." Giving the brown head a final pat Mrs. Anbel turns back down Third Avenue, walking carefully, rocking left to right a bit on legs that are stiffer then she remembers them being when she was a girl.

The dog watches her go, panting gently, closing its mouth to run its tongue over slightly dry lips and nose. Turning the corner, Mrs. Anbel disappears behind the front doors of the Kress store. The dog whines once and then, trotting, lolling tongue and extended tail bouncing in counterpoint, follows after Mrs. Anbel's scent.

Mrs. Anbel is not entirely surprised to see the dog asleep on the flattened cardboard boxes lying next to the side stairway of her building. In fact she carries a bit of bread in her pocket (she told herself it was for the pigeons) that she secretly hopes she'll be able to give to the dog. Mrs. Anbel had seen the dog following her, had even turned once to shoo at it, her hands flipping up from her wrists in a motion that might easily be mistaken for a slight tremor. There it lies, tilting its head up to look at her as she negotiates the stairs one at a time.

The dog accepts the bread from Mrs. Anbel's hand, taking it gingerly with the front teeth, lifting it from the fingers without actually touching them. The bread clear of Mrs. Anbels fingers, the dog gives it a little toss, snatching forward to engulf it completely, the bread disappearing in a lump down its throat.

Mrs. Anbel tuts at the dog's gluttony, smiling her straight lipped smile anyway, patting the dog's head.

"Well, if you are going to be hanging around, I suppose I'm going to have to give you a name. I'll call you Aunt Calla. She had curly hair just about the same color as you. Aunt Calla, that's just the name for you. Here, Aunt Calla!" kiss, kiss.

Mrs. Anbel appears to be out of bread so the dog, Aunt Calla I should say, walks a few tight circles on the cardboard and lies down, resting her head on outstretched forepaws. Mrs. Anbel, creaking a little, bends over to stroke Aunt Calla before turning back up the stairs.

Mrs. Anbel's apartment is small. It is made smaller by the overstuffed davenport that sits against the wall, half the lower pane of the small window hidden behind the scarred, rather threadbare brown upholstered back, and the big Wingback chair that stands in the corner, with the floor lamp hanging over. Then there is the dresser, the sideboard, the wooden table Mrs. Anbel uses for a desk when she is writing a letter to her sister in Waukegan, or working the crossword puzzle in the Sunday paper, and the spinnet piano standing against the wall by the door, books of music and framed pictures of her students cluttering its top.

The Wingback chair is Mr. Anbel's. It is still in exactly the spot he left it when he died. That was a few years ago. It was not an untimely death. Mr. Anbel was 70, not a young age for a man of his generation. The Wingback chair was his evening spot, to sit in, drinking coffee, reading the paper or a book. Mrs. Anbel occasionally envied Mr. Anbel his prerogative, never to the point of being resentful or ever mentioning it. She uses it now for knitting. There are wisps and shreds of knitting woorsted clinging to the stiff-tufted fabric that covers the chair, down the front, where Mrs. Anbel drags the yarn across it from the ball in the basket on the floor. Mrs. Anbel has not forgotten Mr. Anbel. She often sees him sitting there in the evenings, when she comes in from late shopping, just a flash of him sitting there, recognizing her her over the top of his paper, before her eyes become adjusted to the light in the room.

The sideboard is one she and Mr. Anbel were given for a wedding present, by her father. It contains the usual things; dishes, silverwear, napkins that have yellowed from their original ivory to the color of weak tea. There is also a manila envelope, in the bottom drawer, containing the love letters Mr. Edward Anbel wrote to Miss Priscilla Thornton, before she became Mrs. Anbel. On top of the envelope there are miscellaneous mementos from their years together; her wedding garters, a post card from the hotel they stayed at in Waukegan when they went to her sister's wedding, a framed picture of Edward and Priscilla and Aunt Calla at Carnegie Hall that Mrs. Anbel always intended to hang on the wall one day, a wax paper sandwich bag with squarish bits of the petals of a lily that had rested on the lid of Aunt Calla's coffin, from the day they had attended the funeral in Morristown and Mrs. Anbel had picked it up before she left her Aunt Calla's grave. It is a Calla lily, of course.

Mrs. Anbel enters the room.

"Hello, Eddie. I met the nicest pooch today. I've sort of invited her to stay, even though we can't have her up here. I've named her Calla, because she has brown curly hair, just like Aunt Calla." Mr. Anbel responds with a creak of springs from the Wingback chair.

Mrs. Anbel goes to the sideboard, picking up her favorite picture of Aunt Calla, the one of her in a severe, manish suit, marching along with a bunch of other equally stern looking women, carrying a sign saying "Vote for Women's Suffrage." Setting that one down, she picks up the portrait picture of Aunt Calla, taken for a piano recital at the college where she teaches music. There it is, the brown curly hair, bunched tightly against her head. Just like Aunt Calla, Mrs. Anbel thinks, yes just like her. The first Aunt Calla has a rather long nose as well, a fact that is unfortunately ill concealed by the portraitist. Mrs. Anbel purses her lips, turning the picture to the side a little, then replacing it in its spot on the sideboard.

It is Aunt Calla that introduces her niece to young Edward Anbel, at one of the many functions which she is well known for sponsoring. Match making is a very private hobby of Aunt Calla's, owing, perhaps, to her own lack of success in that arena. Aunt Calla usually attributes this lack to the stuffiness of her academic fellows, and to her espousal of giving women the vote in an age when so many have difficulty accepting her as a college professor, never mind as an active participant in political discourse.

Priscilla Thornton is attending the college where her Aunt teaches, as an undergraduate in music, partly because she gets a reduction in tuition for being related, partly because, while her parents want her to be educated, they are unwilling to allow her to be completely on her own and feel Aunt Calla's presence will be a stabilizing influence. This is mostly true, although you might not think so if you were to read the love letters.

Priscilla and Edward meet, court, marry and honeymoon right here at the college, under the watchful eye of Aunt Calla. As Mrs. Anbel, Priscilla decides not to finish her studies, preferring to set up and keep a house, married student's apartment in reality, while Mr. Anbel completes his studies in accountancy. Aunt Calla is not entirely pleased, though she can see that Priscilla will never be a great musician. Good enough to take in occasional piano students to supplement their income, but never destined for the performance hall, or even a teaching position.

Mrs. Anbel is pleased with her station in life, disinclined to the zeal Aunt Calla shows for discourse, but always interested to listen to Aunt Calla's stories of the Suffrage movement, her short but glorius concert career, her childhood in New York before it fell to the industrialists.

Mrs. Anbel fixes herself a pot of tea, heating water drawn from the tap at the sink in the kitchen alcove, on the two burner electric sitting on the counter. She begins pawing through the skiens of yarn that have a tendancy to spring out of the bottom drawer of the dresser when she opens it. She chooses a blue and a dark green, and some dark red for accent, then searches through the pattern pamphlets in the drawer above, finding the one she wants, a pale blue, four page folder of patterns for dog sweaters. Cold weather already making her old fingers stiffer, Mrs Anbel hopes she'll be able to finish a sweater for Aunt Cala before the first real storm blows in. Mrs. Anbel sits in the Wingback chair, thinking of Eddie, counting stitches, muttering multiplication in her head as she mentally sizes up the new Aunt Calla, and thinking of the first Aunt Calla, in her parlour, sweater draped over her shoulders, grey tattering the once pure brown of her hair, directing her students to their tasks at piano, violin, flute or horn.

Later, the first rows of Aunt Calla's sweater cast onto the needles lying in the back corner of the Wingback chair, Mrs. Anbel goes to bed, hoping Aunt Calla will be alright, will still be there in the morning when she goes down to pick up the paper from Mr. Kleinmetz at the stand on the corner.

Over the next several weeks Aunt Calla becomes a regular, following Mrs. Anbel on her daily peregrinations around the neighborhood. Occasionally when Mrs. Anbel comes down in the morning, or if she has to go out in the afternoon for tea or a pint of milk, Aunt Calla will be gone from the nest she has built, with the help of some rags and old newspapers contributed by Mrs. Anbel, on the pile of cardboard by the side stairs. Mrs. Anbel worries at first, but Aunt Calla always finds her; by the newsstand, in the little park down the street; or there she will be, lying outside the door of the market where Mrs. Anbel does her shopping, waiting for Mrs. Anbel to come out, waiting for the tidbit of bread or cracker or chicken gristle Mrs. Anbel has taken to carrying whenever she goes out.

Often they go together to the park, Mrs. Anbel relating stories she rememberes told by the first Aunt Calla. Aunt Calla trots along, listening, stopping occasionally to investigate an interesting smell, pick up a bit of hamburger or the occasional french fry dropped by some careless child, casting from one side of Mrs. Anbel to the other as occasions arise, falling behind now and then, always catching up to hear the last bit of the story before Mrs. Anbel finishes it.

Mrs. Anbel sits on her favorite bench, across from the little concrete fountain that no longer has water in it except when it rains. She reads the paper, or knits if she has her knitting bag, or chats with neighbors while Aunt Calla lies at her feet or meets other dogs or plays with children on the ragged grass filling the small circle surrounding the fountain.

"That'a a handsome dog you've got, Mrs. Anbel." Mrs. Welch says, plopping herself heavily on the bench by Mrs. Anbel.

"Yes, isn't she. I call her Calla, Aunt Calla really. She looks like my Aunt Calla you see."

"Really? Well that's it, I guess. We can't all look like movie stars, can we." Mrs. Welch laughs in her throat, with her lips closed, watching Aunt Calla chasing after a tennis ball thrown by her grandson, whom she is keeping for her daughter "who is off again today at some meeting or other. I don't mind really, though he does tear up the house a bit. Do you keep the dog in your room? Won't the landlord throw a fit if he finds out?"

"Oh, I don't let her in," Mrs. Anbel replies. "I'd like to bring her in, but I've been in that place so long, I know where everything is, I wouldn't want to have to move. Besides, Aunt Calla never wants to come in."

"What's that you are knitting? It's pretty."

"It's a sweater for Aunt Calla. I'm afraid she might get too cold when the snow blows in." Mrs. Anbel holds the needles up away from her lap, examining the garment taking shape, the pattern of green and blue diamonds picked out by a thin line of red. Aunt Calla trots by, smiling around the tennis ball in her mouth.

"You stay out of the street, Tim, you hear me?" Mrs. Welch shouts at her charge. Aunt Calla looks over her shoulder at the two women on the bench, back at Tim, then sits down on the grass by the fountain and refuses to move, so Tim has to come over to retrieve the ball if he wants to keep playing fetch.

That Aunt Calla, thinks Mrs. Anbel, she is always careful about children. Her hands move the needles automatically in her lap, lifting occasionally to pull more yarn from the bag, while she thinks of Aunt Calla teaching music appreciation to the children of the other professors or some of the more mature (or less carefull) married students.

Mrs. Anbel shivers slightly, despite her long wool coat and thick stockings, as a sharp gust of wind kicks trash and grass shreds around the little park. Tim is talking to Aunt Calla, trying to convince her to give up the tennis ball. Mrs. Anbel stuffs the needles and sweater back in her knitting bag and heaves herself up off the bench.

"Whoof, it's getting cold isn't it? I must get back and make myself a bit of tea. It was nice chatting with you Mrs. Welch. Goodbye Timmie!"

"Good day to you Mrs. Anbel. Come along Tim, get your ball and come along home."

Aunt Calla stops teasing Tim to watch Mrs. Anbel preparing to leave.

Mrs. Anbel doesn't call Aunt Calla to follow her. She knows Aunt Calla has a mind of her own and will follow or not as she determines best. When Mrs. Anbel is across the last walkway of the park, out onto the sidedalk of Third Avenue, Aunt Calla drops the ball and trots after, passing Mrs. Anbel, who smiles behind her muffler, to investigate and mark a bit of brick wall further down the street.

The wind continues to blow as Mrs. Anbel and Aunt Calla make their way back to Mrs. Anbel's building. Even turning down the alleyway, to where the side steps lie along the building wall doesn't reduce the impact of the cold air on Mrs. Anbel's legs, or how it works it's way between the buttons of her coat. Aunt Calla goes immediately to her place, in the corner where the block of cement that is the stair meets the stone side of the building. Without even taking time to walk the circles, she curls herself tightly into the corner, among the bits of cloth and newspapers, shaken now and then by brief eddies in the wind. Mrs. Anbel pauses on the landing to look down at Aunt Calla, who looks back with her eyes only.

"I'll be back down in a while to bring you a bit of something. Now I must get some hot tea into myself. Don't worry, I'll be back."

In her apartment Mrs. Anbel fills the tea kettle and puts it on the electric, pulls the box of jasmine tea from the little cupboard, measures tea into the tea thimble for the blue figured teapot on the counter and sits in the Wingback chair to continue knitting while waiting for the water to boil. She worries about Aunt Calla, about her hands, so much stiffer than before, about her ability to get the sweater finished before cold weather might force Aunt Calla to find a warmer place to stay, so worried that she didn't say hello to Mr. Anbel when she came in, hasn't excused herself for sitting in his lap on the Wingback chair. Mr. Anbel, for his part, hmphs at Mrs. Anbel's discourtesy, rattling the window a bit before flumping down on the davenport, raising a small cloud of dust from the back as he does so. Mrs. Anbel, concentrating, pays him no attention. The kettle comes to the boil. Mrs. Anbel rises to make the tea, swishing hot water around the empty pot before placing the tea thimble inside and pouring more hot water over the leaves and flowers. The smell of jasmine fills the kitchen alcove, reminding Mrs. Anbel of Aunt Calla's kitchen in her rooms at the college, jasmine tea, Aunt Calla's favorite, and tea cookies on the table, waiting for a break in the music floating in from the parlour. Mrs. Anbel pours herself a cup, sipping at the too hot tea, making a sound not unlike the kissing sounds she had first used to draw Aunt Calla to her.

On her way back to the Wingback chair, teacup and saucer in hand, Mrs. Anbel glances at the davenport where Mr. Anbel sits, reading the paper lying next to him on the cushion. Mr. Anbel ruffles the paper in a current of air from the window. Mrs. Anbel sets down her teacup, kneels down on the davenport next to Mr. Anbel, and leans over the back to make certain the window is tightly closed.

"Excuse me, Eddie, I think there's a bit of draft coming in at the window here."

Mr. Anbel only rustles his paper in response.

Looking out the window Mrs. Anbel can see clouds over the building across the street. As she watches, a large bit of white slants across her vision.

"Good heavens, Eddie, here it is snowing already and I've only got Aunt Calla's sweater half finished. Do you suppose I ought to ask Aunt Calla in, just for a bit?"

Mr. Anbel answers with a hmm that sounds rather like a spring adjusting itself under the weight of Mrs. Anbel's knees on the davenport. Mrs. Anbel sits in the chair, sipping her tea. She tries knitting, looking over at the window to see if the snow is getting worse, has to put it down huffily the third time she drops a stitch. Outside the day grows darker, fat snowflakes falling more frequently, occasionally batting at Mrs. Anbel's window with a sound of moth wings.

Mrs. Anbel resolves herself, hoisting herself out of the chair, putting on her coat and muffler, hoping that the building manager and her neighbors are snuggling themselves down in front of television or something, won't notice her bring Aunt Calla in, assuming Aunt Calla is willing to come. The three flights of stairs are more unpleasant than usual in the cold air. At the bottom Mrs. Anbel is more than usually careful, being quiet as possible negotiating the narrow hallway to the side door. The door opens reluctantly, scraping a thin mush of water and ice off the concrete stoop with the rubber seal across the bottom. Mrs. Anbel closes the door and leans over the railing to look at Aunt Calla lying in her nest of paper and cardboard, shivering a bit, looking up at Mrs. Anbel through raised eyebrows.

"Come along, Aunt Calla, just for a bit won't you, just for a while to warm you up?"

Aunt Calla lifts her head, questioning Mrs. Anbel. Mrs. Anbel clumps carefully down the stairs, holding on to the railing, checking for icy spots as she does so. Around behind the stairs Aunt Calla meets her with a small furry smile, brushing dust from her muzzle with a careful tongue.

"Come along won't you please, Aunt Calla. Everyone is inside watching television, they won't notice you. It will be just for tonight, you can go out again in the morning."

Aunt Calla pulls her ears back, watching Mrs. Anbel's expression as she clutches her hands to warm them. Mrs. Anbel reaches into the pocket of her coat, pulling out a bit of dried up bacon wrapped in plastic from a cracker box.

"Here Aunt Calla, see the nice bit of bacon I've got for you. Come along, I've got more upstairs."

Aunt Calla reaches out her nose, smelling the faint aroma from the old morsel. She stops, looking suspiciously when Mrs. Anbel begins backing away toward the stairs instead of allowing Aunt Calla to take the tidbit from her fingers. The cold wind blowing past the cement block of the stairs stops her again, not sure the bit of bacon is worth the trip up the stairs where Mrs. Anbel is waiting. At the landing Mrs. Anbel holds the door open, waving aunt Calla in the door with the bacon in her hand. Aunt Calla pauses a moment in the doorway, sniffing the musty inside of the building, the confused odors of dozens of tenants filling the hallway, the scent of Mrs. Anbel's recent passage a central thread in the tangled skien of smells. Ears back, head down, tail low, Aunt Calla enters the hallway, turning to watch Mrs. Anbel pass through and close the door firmly and quietly. Mrs. Anbel holds out the bacon bit, worrying that if she gives it to her, Aunt Calla won't come upstairs, that failure to do so will be seen as a betrayal. Aunt Calla takes it carefully, holding it a bit longer than usual in her teeth, watching Mrs. Anbel, before pulling it in with her tongue, chewing it briefly and swallowing it, allowing her tail to swing briefly in thanks.

Mrs. Anbel makes her way along the hall. Aunt Calla follows slowly, pausing to sniff occasionally, but no longer unwilling to follow Mrs. Anbel deeper into the building. The stairs take longer than usual, what with the cold and having to be especially quiet. The door to Mrs. Anbel's apartment finally appears down the hallway, standing ajar as Mrs. Anbel left it in her haste.

Once inside they close the door quickly. Aunt Calla sniffs in the smell of Mrs. Anbel filling the room, overtones of breakfast bacon, biscuits and tea; a whisper of shaving lotion and wool trousers, all that's left of Mr. Anbel's long residence. She looks around the room, deciding finally to curl up on the braided rug warming the floor half under the piano, circling briefly in the corner by the leg, overhung by the keyboard.

Mrs. Anbel can smell only the jasmine tea, its honey scent stirred around by currents from the door, or from Mr. Anbel's wanderings about the room. She watches Aunt Calla select her spot by the piano, carrying her teacup over to the sink, to replace the now cool tea with fresh from the pot. Now that Aunt Calla is in, Mrs. Anbel isn't sure what to say. The room is really so much smaller than Aunt Calla's parlour, looking rather cluttered with the remnants of a long life with Mr. Anbel, not at all like Aunt Calla's beautifully arranged furniture, pictures of famous composers and musicians lining the walls, music stands stacked neatly in the corner, waiting for the arrival of the next gathering of students and friends.

Aunt Calla doesn't mind, her eyes following Mrs. Anbel around the room, eyebrows lifting each time Mrs. Anbel begins to move, settling again a moment or two after Mrs. Anbel stops. Mrs. Anbel settles herself at last in the Wingback chair, taking a last sip at her tea before picking up her knitting.

"You see, it's for you, to keep you warm this winter. Do you like it?" Mrs. Anbel asks, holding it up for Aunt Calla to see. Aunt Calla taps her tail against the rug in answer. Mrs. Anbel smiles, returning to work, the needles ticking together, blue or green or red thread disappearing into the tiny interwoven loops in her lap.

She looks up a time later, a bit startled to see the nearly finished sweater in her lap, wondering what has disturbed her. Aunt Calla sits at the piano, thumbing through a book of Chopin, her brown curls quaking slightly as she rejects one piece, then another. Mae Dillard is setting up music stands around the rug in the middle of the room, spreading their bright metal fans. Two young men and a girl are coming in at the door, lugging cases, violins, a viola, a flute. In the corner by the kitchen Eddie stands watching the proceedings, casting an occasional glance at Priscilla, holding his teacup in one hand, a lopsided smile on his lips.

Priscilla rises from the chair to pour tea around for Aunt Calla and the students, stopping last to fill Eddie's cup, watching the steamy liquid swirl around the bowl, feeling Eddie's eyes on her.

"Come along, Priscilla, here it is." Aunt Calla calls out from the piano, moving to sit in the Wingback chair, leaving the bench open for Priscilla, the music book open to her first selection for the evening.

Sitting on the bench, Priscilla runs her hands over the keys, looking at the music, thinking about fingering. The other musicians are tuning, Priscilla gives them a chord to tune to.

All settled, at last they begin to play, Priscilla's fingers flying over the keyboard more surely than she ever remembers, the music filling the parlour with the haunting melodies of Chopin, violins, viola, flute and piano carrying them all to the place where new memories grow, Aunt Calla at the helm, directing them with nods and smiles from her place in the Wingback chair. One piece follows another, tea and biscuits and laughter filling up the spaces left open between.

The evening progresses, snow drifting softly outside, mixing with the music drifting through the curtained windows, ending at last with a final Etude. The students finish the biscuits as they pack away their instruments, exchange reluctant goodbyes at the doorway before plunging into the snow, Aunt Calla waving them off at the door. Smiling she turns to see Priscilla and Edward waiting surreptitiously in the parlour.

"I must make my toilet now. You'll finish things up in here, won't you? Don't forget to turn off the lights." Aunt Calla smiles thinly at them, light from the hallway lamps glinting off her spectacles.

Priscilla and Eddie finish putting the music away, collect teacups on the kitchen table and dusting biscuit crumbs off the tables and chairs. With nothing left to keep them from it, they turn down the lights and curl up together on the broad seat of the Wingback chair, snuggling and kissing quietly, listening to the sounds of Aunt Calla in the other room, of snow falling against the windows, of music seeping out from where it has collected in the walls. Happy and warm, her head against Eddie's shoulder, Priscilla drifts off into dreams of houses and children and music.

She lifts her head from the wing of the chair, the pattern of the upholstery fading slowly from the skin of her cheek and forhead. Lifting her head from her paws, Aunt Calla watches Mrs. Anbel pack her knitting away in the basket.

"Oh dear, look at the time, I really should go to bed. That was lovely Aunt Calla, really lovely. Did you send Eddie home?"

Aunt Calla lays her head back down on her paws, drops her eyebrows and closes her eyes, sighing a deep sigh.

"Yes it truly was lovely Aunt Calla, just like you, just like always."

* * *

Mrs. Anbel wakes late in the morning, Aunt Calla scratching at the door. She puts her coat on over her nightgown, struggling quickly down the stairs, afraid someone will discover them at any moment. At the side door Aunt Calla steps gingerly out into the damp snow, carefully down the stairs, then heads off down the alley. Halfway to the street she looks back at Mrs. Anbel standing in the doorway, wags her tail, then continues down the alley, disappearing around the brick building next door.

Mrs. Anbel stands in the door a few minutes, then decides Aunt Calla doesn't expect her to wait until she gets back. Later, after dressing, on her way to pick up the paper from Mr. Kleinmetz, she looks for Aunt Calla, expecting to see her at any moment. Aunt Calla does not appear. Nor does Aunt Calla return that evening when Mrs. Anbel goes down with a bit of toast from her lunch.

The next morning Mrs. Anbel discovers that Mr. Granger, her landlord, has cleared the snow and debris from the alleyway, taking Aunt Calla's nest to the dumpster. He has also put a note in Mrs. Anbel's mailbox reminding her of the rent coming due, and the rule that pets are not allowed in the building.

In the evening Mrs. Anbel completes the sweater, the pretty blue and green diamonds, picked out with the thin line of red. She rolls up the left over yarn, stuffing it back in the bottom dresser drawer. She folds the sweater neatly, placing it carefully in the bottom drawer of the sideboard, on top of the love letters from Mr. Anbel, the framed picture of Edward and Priscilla and Aunt Calla at Carnegie Hall, and the waxed paper bag of flower petals. She goes to bed, leaving wisps of yarn, blue, green, red, in the stiff tufted fabric of the old Wingback chair.