“—nuh-not long…not long to…live”—even in breathless undeath, the woman’s voice was ironic, comprehending—“the braaacelet, Looo-ceee broke it, took thu-the rest of it…luh-less puh-power…for my half—”
—and three little chairs from the years when Lucy was small, dragged up through the trapdoor and arranged up here, in this awful playroom. And on one of the tiny pink enameled chairs rested the sunken, dusty-furred bow-necked stretched-out body of a white cat with irregular gray splotches, the extended paws withered, with faceted nubs of faded pink and black pads, the eyelids mere sunken squiggles, the moistureless mummified gums pulled back from curving yellow-ivory incisors—while on the other chair rested an old wedding gown and veil.
(Good lord, that’s Aunt Bella’s cat—my grandfather. She
