ABSTRACT
“This doctor,” she said half aloud, as she was smoothing the cream onto her hand, “is a genuine God-send! What’s it called?” She lifted the jar and drew it closer to her eyes. “Ne-o-gra-nor-mor,” she deciphered. And then to herself, shaking her head: “It is a genuine miracle that Bernat has no reaction to it, that it doesn’t constantly give him a rash there.” She nodded her head. “There.” She spoke emphatically as if someone were attempting to deny her assertion. “And it is good for the hands too. My hands aren’t chapped any longer since I started using it.” Raising her hands to her eyes, she turned them palm outward. Then she started to rise and with narrowed eyes gazed at the clock. It took a while before she became aware the clock had run down. “When I no longer can climb up there and wind it up …” she said, and interjected, as if defending herself against some unspoken accusation: “I’m not going to climb up there just for that. What if I fall? What would happen to you then? Who is going to take … ?” Her eyes roved about and sought the alarm clock. Quarter past nine. “They wrote they would be here by ten. Fortunately, I checked the mail …”
