from her chair and walked to the stove and began to spoon broth and soft potatoes into a bowl. I took off my kerchief and stretched my arms.
Anethe wondered aloud where the men would stop to eat. Karen said she thought it likely they would go to a hotel and have a night for themselves. I disagreed and said I thought they would go to Ira Thaxter’s on Broad Street, for they would have to beg a meal from a friend, until they sold the catch, the proceeds of which were to have gone for provisions. Karen pointed out to me that Ringe hadn’t been fed yet, and I rose from the table and put some stew into his dish. All in all, I was quite amazed that Karen had not muttered something about the men having failed to take her into Portsmouth, but I imagine that even Karen could tire of her own complaints.
While Anethe washed the pots and dishes, nearly scalding her hand from the kettle water, Karen and I struggled with a mattress that we dragged downstairs to lay in the kitchen for her. Anethe asked if she could sleep in my bed to keep from being cold and lonely without Evan that night, and though I was slightly discomfited by the thought of a woman in my bed, and Anethe at that, I did reason that her body would provide some warmth, as John’s did, and besides, I did not like to refuse such a personal request. After stoking up the fire for warmth, I believe that the three of us then took off our outer garments and put on our nightdresses, even Karen, who had thought to stay in her city clothes so that she would not have to dress again in the morning, but in the end was persuaded to remove them so as not to muss them unduly. And then, just as I was about to extinguish the lights, Karen took out from the cupboard bread and milk and soft cheese, and said that she was still hungry, and I will not weary the reader with the silly quarrel that ensued, although I had reason to be annoyed with her as we had just cleaned up the kitchen, and finally I said to Karen that if she would eat at this time, she could tidy up after herself and would she please extinguish the light.
Sometimes it is as though I have been transported in my entirety back to that night, for I can feel, as if I were again lying in that bed, the soft forgiveness of the feather mattress and the heavy weight of the many quilts under which Anethe and I lay. It was always startling, as the room grew colder, to experience the contrast in temperatures between one’s face, which was exposed to the frigid air, and one’s body, which was encased in goose down. We had both been still for some time, and I had seen, through the slit underneath the bedroom door, that the light had been put out, which meant that Karen had finally gone to bed. I was lying flat on my back with my arms at my sides, looking up at the ceiling, which I could make out only dimly in the moonlight. Anethe lay facing me, curled into a comma, holding the covers close up to her chin. I had worn a nightcap, but Anethe had not, and I suppose this was because she had a natural cap in the abundance of her hair. I had thought she was asleep, but I turned my head quickly toward her and back again and saw that she was staring at me, and I felt a sudden stiffening all through me, a response no doubt to the awkwardness of lying in my bed with a woman, and this woman my brother’s wife.
“Maren,” she whispered, “are you still awake?”
She knew that I was. I whispered, “Yes.”
“I feel restless and cannot sleep,” she said, “although all day I have felt as though I would sleep on my feet.”
“You are not yourself,” I said.
“I suppose.” She shifted in the bed, bringing her face a little closer to my own.
“Do you think the men are all right? You don’t think anything could have happened to them?”
I had thought once or twice, briefly, not liking to linger on the thought, that perhaps John and Evan had met with an accident on the way to Portsmouth, although that seemed unlikely to me, and,