Housekeeping: A Novel by Marilynne Robinson Read Free Book Online

between them about her not writing back, and remembered her as too dreaming and self-absorbed to be ordinarily considerate, and hoped she was not ill, Sylvie knocked at the door.
    Nona went down to the door (the hall from the kitchen to the front door sloped rather sharply, though the angle was eased somewhat by a single step midway), rustling with all the slippery frictions of her old woman’s clothing and underclothing. We heard her murmuring, “My dear! So cold! You walked? Come in the kitchen!”and then her rustling and her heavy shoes coming back up the hallway and not a sound more.
    Sylvie came into the kitchen behind her, with a quiet that seemed compounded of gentleness and stealth and self-effacement. Sylvie was about thirty-five, tall, and narrowly built. She had wavy brown hair fastened behind her ears with pins, and as she stood there, she smoothed the stray hairs back, making herself neat for us. Her hair was wet, her hands were red and withered from the cold, her feet were bare except for loafers. Her raincoat was so shapeless and oversized that she must have found it on a bench. Lily and Nona glanced at each other, eyebrows raised. There was a little silence, and then Sylvie hesitantly put her icy hand on my head and said, “You’re Ruthie. And you’re Lucille. Lucille has the lovely red hair.”
    Lily stood up then and took both of Sylvie’s hands, and Sylvie stooped to be kissed. “Here, sit here by the heater,” she said, pushing a chair. Sylvie sat down.
    “It’s really warmest by the stove,” said Nona. “Take your coat off, dear. You’ll warm up faster. I’ll poach an egg for you.”
    “Do you like poached eggs?” Lily asked. “I could boil one.”
    “Either way would be fine,” Sylvie said. “A poached egg would be very nice.” She unbuttoned her coat and slipped her arms out of the sleeves. “What a lovely dress!” Lily exclaimed. Sylvie smoothed her skirt with her long hands. The dress was a deep green, with a satiny shine. It had short sleeves and a large round collar on which there was a brooch, a little bunch of lilies of the valley. She looked at us all and looked down at her dressagain, clearly pleased that it had made an impression. “Yes, you look very nice, my dear. Very well,” Nona said, rather loudly. She really intended this observation for her sister, just as Lily’s compliment had been intended for her. They shouted, for the sake of the other’s comprehension and because neither of them could gauge her voice very well, and each of them considered her sister’s hearing worse than her own, so each of them spoke a little louder than she had to. And they had lived all their lives together, and felt that they had a special language between them. So when Lily said, with a glance at Nona, “What a lovely dress,” it was as if to say, “She seems rather sane! She seems rather normal!” And when Nona said, “You look very well,” it was as if to say, “Perhaps she’ll do! Perhaps she can stay and we can go!” Sylvie sat in the simple kitchen light with her hands in her lap and her eyes on her hands, while Lily and Nona stalked about on their stiff old legs, poaching eggs and dishing up stewed prunes, flushed and elated by their secret understanding.
    “Did you know Mr. Simmons died?” Lily asked.
    “He must have been very old,” Sylvie said.
    “And do you remember a Danny Rappaport?”
    Sylvie shook her head.
    “He was a class behind you in school.”
    “I guess I should remember him.”
    “Well, he died. I don’t know how.”
    Nona said, “The funeral was announced in the paper, but there was no article about it. We thought that was strange. Just a photograph.”
    “Not recent, either,” Lily grumbled. “He looked nineteen. Not a line in his face.”
    “Was Mother’s funeral nice?” Sylvie asked.
    “Lovely.”
    “Oh, yes, very nice.”
    The old sisters looked at each other.
    “Very small, though, of course,” Nona said.
    “Yes, she wanted