Toots?” Gertrude demanded, finally picking up a fork
and studying her meal.
“I think it’s . . . terrific,” Judith said at last. “If it all
works out.”
“That nice Southern boy says it will,” Gertrude
replied glibly. “What did he call it? ‘An intimate portrait of the twentieth century.’ See here?” She tapped a
small piece of paper. “I wrote it down so I wouldn’t
forget.”
Judith still had some reservations. “Have you signed
a contract?”
“Nope,” Gertrude said. “But some guy named Vito or
Zito or Tito is writing it up. Still, I figure I’d better get
an agent first. I can’t read all that fine print. Literally.”
Standing up, Judith reached out to hug her mother.
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“It sounds promising. I hope everything turns out the
way you hope it will.”
“It will,” Gertrude said complacently. Then she
frowned. “I just hope they hurry.”
“You mean because the Hollywood people may be
leaving soon?”
Gertrude shook her head. “No. Because I may be
leaving soon. Even the Greatest Generation can’t live
forever.”
By the time Judith got back to the house, she was
surprised to see that several guests were sitting down
to breakfast. In the kitchen, Joe was hustling eggs,
bacon, and toast.
“The estimated time of departure is ten-thirty,” he
informed her in a low voice.
Judith gave her husband a startled look. “They’re
leaving? But the fog hasn’t lifted.”
“Vito says the studio has given them the go-ahead,”
Joe replied, placing toast in a rack. “The weather forecast predicts the fog will be gone by noon.”
Judith stood rooted to the spot. “Should we be glad?”
“I don’t know,” Joe replied, heading to the dining
room with the toast. “I couldn’t get a feel one way or
another from Vito.”
When he returned moments later, Judith inquired
after Angela. “Is she going, too?”
“No,” said Joe, pouring more eggs into the pan.
“They’re sending her directly to rehab at the Ford
Madox Ford Center on the Eastside. According to Vito,
she’ll be there at least a couple of months. Maybe this
time the cure will take.”
As Joe tended the stove, Judith peeked over the
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swinging doors that led into the dining room. The conversation seemed lighthearted. Maybe the movie people had put their differences aside now that they were
leaving what they considered a fogbound backwater.
Everyone was there. Everyone except Winifred.
Winifred Best seemed to be the least likely of the
guests to sleep in. A wave of apprehension came over
Judith as she started for the back stairs.
The phone rang. Judith grabbed it from its cradle,
hoping that Dilys Oaks was calling with good news for
Joe. Instead, it was Phyliss Rackley, calling with bad
news for Judith.
“I can’t breathe,” Phyliss announced in a voice that
was anything but short of wind. “I must have tuberculosis. Where’s the nearest sanitorium?”
“They don’t send people there for TB anymore,
Phyliss,” Judith asserted. “They can cure it with antibiotics. Call your doctor.”
“I can’t,” Phyliss replied, then coughed with what
sounded like feigned effort. “I’m fading fast. I need an
iron lung.”
“That’s for polio,” Judith said crossly. “Are you
telling me you won’t be here today?”
“How can I?” Phyliss asked, forlorn. “The Lord is
coming for me. I saw Him this morning in my closet.”
“Tell the Lord to come out of the closet and put you
on the bus to Hillside Manor,” Judith huffed. “I’ve got
a big mess here today, and I’m worn out. Furthermore,
it’s All Saints’ Day and I have to go to noon Mass.”
“You and your Roman rituals,” Phyliss complained.
“What kind of sacrifice do you make this time? A gopher?”
Judith refused to waste time discussing the sacrifice
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315
of the Mass to Phyliss. She’d already explained it on at
least a dozen occasions. “I really need you, Phyliss. Do
you think you could make it by noon? The fog’s supposed to lift by then.”
“Well . . .” Phyliss seemed to consider the request.
“I’ll see. Maybe the Lord can work a miracle cure.”
She coughed some more for effect. “Kaff, kaff.”
Hanging up, Judith continued on her way upstairs,
then went the length of the hall to Room One, which
Winifred had shared the previous night with Ellie Linn.
Knocking gently at first, she got no response. She
rapped harder. Still no reply. She was about to hammer
on the door when she decided simply to open it.
The door was unlocked. A billow of smoke engulfed
Judith. Flames licked at the bedclothes just as the fire
alarm sounded and the sprinkler system went off.
Winifred lay awkwardly on the bed, her eyes closed,
her mouth agape. Even as Judith screamed for help,
she braved the smoke, fire, and drenching water to
reach the motionless woman. Coughing, gritting her
teeth, and ever aware that she could dislocate the artificial hip, she grabbed Winifred by the feet and attempted to tug her off the bed.
Despite Winifred’s slimness, Judith could move her
no more than a few inches. The water was pouring
down, dousing the flames but turning the room into a
nightmare of sizzling vapors. Judith gasped, coughed
again, and yanked at a pillowcase to put over her
mouth. She barely heard the pounding of feet on the
stairs or Joe’s shouts as he reached the second floor.
A moment later he was in the room, arms flailing,
trying to push Judith out of the way. He missed. Judith,
with the wet pillowcase protecting her nose and mouth,
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caught Winifred around the knees and, with a mighty
wrench, moved her into a sitting position against the
headboard.
At the same time she felt—and heard—an odd
sound in her hip. She collapsed on the floor.
“Don’t move!” Joe yelled as he picked up Winifred
and carried her into the hall.
Dazed, Judith choked, coughed, and shivered in a
huddled mass near the door. The fire, which had spread
to the lace curtains on the other side of the room, was
now sputtering out. Sirens could be heard in the distance. Someone must have called 911. Again.
“Winifred . . .” Judith murmured as Joe bent down
to put his arms around her shoulders. “Is she . . . ?”
“Never mind Winifred,” he said, his voice husky.
“Can you stand?”
She wasn’t sure. What was worse, she was afraid to
try. To her surprise, Dirk Farrar entered the room. “I
can lift her,” he volunteered.
“We both can,” Joe retorted.
They did, carefully moving her out of the room and
placing her on the settee in the hall. Winifred was lying
on the floor by the door to the bathroom between
Rooms Three and Four. Dade was leaning over her,
once again trying to revive a fallen comrade.
“She’s alive,” Eugenia announced.
Dade looked up. “She’s coming ’round.”
“Thank God,” Judith gasped, then tried to sit up