The Game of Love and Death(46)

A part of Death that had given way to being a cat felt an urge to bat at the silver needle and its fluttering tail of thread as it arced and looped in the woman’s fingertips. Death wouldn’t give in to that desire, but she did move closer and gaze up at the woman with her strange black eyes.

“I see you there, watching me,” Marion said. “Don’t think I don’t know that.”

Death licked a paw and ran it behind her ear.

“When you get to my age,” Marion said, tucking a stitch into the fabric, “you see things more for how they are.”

Death lowered her paw.

“Of course, there’s no sense in talking about them.” Marion examined her work a moment, and then completed a line of stitches. “People would think you’d gone ’round the bend if you did. I didn’t expect that’s what you’d look like, though I was ready to bash in your skull if you did anything to my Flora. Bash your skull, you hear? I’d maybe even use that lamp over there.”

She gestured at a heavy brass lamp shaped like a whistling boy.

Flicking her tail, Death walked to the armchair by the window where Marion often sat waiting for Flora to return home. The chair smelled like the old woman, powdery and sweet. With grace, Death transformed herself into a human guise, one she hoped would give pleasure to Marion.

The old woman dropped her needle. “Vivian?”

“No, just someone who remembers her.” Death smoothed the folds of a dress that looked exactly like the one Marion’s daughter, Vivian, Flora’s mother, wore the night she died. “Think of this as my gift to you.”

“It is a gift.” Marion breathed the word out on a wobbly sigh. She lifted her spectacles and pushed at the welling tears. “I’m glad — I’m glad I’m not the only one who remembers. That’s what makes it worse, of course. Your child dies and no one wants to disturb you by talking about her, and then before you realize it, time has passed and everyone’s forgotten. Everyone but you.” She removed her spectacles. Tears fell. “Let me just look at you a moment.”


She found her needle and tucked it beneath the topmost layer of the fabric, holding her place. Then she wiped her face and covered her mouth to hold back a sob. After a long while, she spoke. “I’ve missed you, child.”

Death held still, hating this part of it. It won’t be much more time now.

“You’d be proud of your girl,” Marion said. “Grown up. So independent. And she sings. Not like you, though. She has her own way. And she flies a plane and has this dream of going across the ocean, although I know that’ll be the death of her.” She caught herself, apparently remembering to whom she was talking. She put on her spectacles and picked up her quilt, scowling at it. “A practical question, if I may. Will I be able to finish this? There isn’t all that much left.”

Death was tempted to adjust her face so that she was no longer the spitting image of Vivian, but rather, someone who looked like she could be a sister. It felt strangely intrusive being in costume at such a moment. But she held the form, not wanting to kill the woman’s hope. “Keep sewing,” she said. “I won’t stop you.”

“Thank you. I never was one for unfinished business.” Marion slid the needle into the cloth. She looked at Death again. “You know, you didn’t quite get her eyes right.”

“Yes, those.” Death shrugged. “My task requires a certain sort of vision. I always keep my own.”

The two women sat in companionable silence until the mantel clock’s hands found another hour. Midnight. The first of twelve chimes rang out. Nana sighed. “A sensible woman would be in bed by now. But I knew I’d have to finish this tonight. I knew it.” She made three more stitches, as the clock chimed on, then paused and put a hand over her heart. “I knew you were coming. Felt it right here.”

“It’s late,” Death said on the third chime. She grabbed the armrests of the chair, readying herself to stand.

“I’m not going to be able to finish.” Marion looked down at the spread of her quilt, millions of tiny stitches representing millions of moments that would never return.

Death shook her head. “A life with all of its business finished is a life too cautiously lived.” She believed every word of that. She would never lie to someone, not at a time like this. “Come on, now.”

Marion glanced toward the door, and Death made a scolding face. “Sherman isn’t coming. Neither is Flora. And if you run, I will follow.”

“That wasn’t it,” Marion said, almost smiling. “If I run … the thought of it! I was trying to imagine how this will look to Flora. Isn’t there some way —”

“I’m sorry.” And Death was, in her own fashion. She couldn’t get rid of the woman’s body. That would make Flora feel far worse.

At the ninth chime, she stood. Pausing time for everyone except herself and Marion, she walked across the cozy parlor in Vivian’s form, and the memories of that life came rushing back, unbidden. Death felt a pang that Flora had been too young to know her mother. Marion ran her hands over the slightly puckered quilt fabric one last time. She made her way to the sofa and patted the space next to her.

“Come sit beside me awhile,” she said.

Sitting next to Marion, she could smell the woman’s soul, and it made her ravenous.