Tonight, she wore a shapeless white cafeteria uniform with an oversized apron. Her hair was done up in a bun on top of her head. She wore opaque white...stockings, and what Malcolm had to believe were the most hideous white orthopedic shoes ever created. All she needed now was a hair net and she would be the perfect high school ‘lunch lady’. Previous efforts had included takeoffs on Hazel and Alice from TV fame, and a truly wretched Russian babushka. He dreaded to think what her next creation. Immediately, I am swamped by the familiar smell of apples stored in the cellar, of the stockpot in the kitchen, spices in the larder and the oak we used to carve the staircase. Upstairs, above me, someone stirs. I hear his footfalls, roused by the noise, descending in the scented dark. Then his voice, glorious and rich like whiskey and fine resin grown in the southern valleys, “Arianna? Is that you? I was dreaming you came home.” Nothing has changed. “It’s me,” I say, surprising myself with how. More

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