Diane Williams - Fine, Fine, Fine, Fine, Fine

He nodded, likely pleased by the attention, but it was hard to tell — for only his radiant pate was made visible by a tiny ceiling light.

To my surprise, the air in the street was too hot to give pleasure and a cyclist was mistakenly on the sidewalk.

The cyclist hit me, and it’s vile after my life ends in the afterlife. Lots of incense, resin, apes, and giraffe-tails — all acquired tastes. I don’t like that kind of thing.

She carves with a sharply scalloped steel blade, makes slices across the top of a long, broad loaf of yeasted bread for the dog who begs and there’s a cat there, too.

She holds the loaf against her breast and presses it up under her chin. But this is no violin! Won’t she sever her head?

The influence of the early evening’s sunset was much less bloody inside of the salon, spreading itself like red smoke or like a slowly moving red fog, unbounded.

Yet, Mrs. Farquhar’s hair was nearly bloodred, and it behaved like dry hair.

The hairdresser lifted a clump of it, dropped it. To soften it, she reached for her leave-in detangler.

She looked for more signs of neglect, the thread connections that could come to light. She said, “It’s all broken. It’s much worse.”

The haircut trickled along, and it would take a long time.

But how terribly unhappy Mrs. Farquhar was. She must not have been adaptable to something else much more serious in particular.

However, the tea she had been served had the tang of the dirty lake of her childhood that she remembered swallowing large amounts of while swimming, and she wore the shop’s black Betty Dain easy-to-wear client wrap robe.

The full view of Mrs. Farquhar’s face and of her hair in the mirror was a trial for both of them.

Nonetheless, the hairdresser preened. She wore an elite Betty Dain gown, too.

Later she tidied up and by breakfast time, at home, the next morning — the hairdresser was alone, wedged between her chair and the table. There was a plastic plate in front of her and a ceramic mug. These both had glossy surfaces — impenetrable, opaque.

She removed her solitaire pearl finger ring, put it onto the plate.

Through the window she saw her pruned shrubbery, a narrow green lawn, no trees.

She believed it was her duty to size these things up.

What was it that she did or did not admire? It was a question of her upsetting something.

The family was blessed with more self-confidence than most of us have and with a great lawn, with arbors and beds of flowers, and with a fountain in the shape of a sun at the south end. It is not our purpose to say anything imprecise about their scheme, how they had gotten on with tufted and fringed furniture, with their little tables, a parquet floor, a bean pot.

The walls inside of this country house were amber-colored where they entertained quite formally — until the old mansion was destroyed.

It was a shapely shingle-style house, with bulbous posts.

But what kind of confident people behave poorly by not being confident enough?

Let us examine the case.

Eldrida Cupit had given birth to four children. Three of these and their father drowned trying to cross the Quesnel River in a boat. She later married Mr. Cupit and had many more children. “Imp,” as she was known, was famous for her fresh peach sour cream pie, her steak shortcake, and more significantly for her élan.

People often saw her husband Blade on the street and he not only was polite, but he invited many personally to his home to hear about his rough riding days and his numerous good works.

In her later years, Mrs. Cupit dressed slowly for dinner and did not intend nor want to see anyone, except for her husband at dinner.

Frequently her husband left the table before she arrived and then edged himself up the back stairs.

He began to drink and lost all of his money after his wife died.

Often, as in this tale, a downpour with thunder and lightning is sufficiently full-bodied to get somebody’s whole attention. In one such storm Mr. Cupit had a vision of his wife. Her clothing was not exactly cut to fit and she showed no sign of affection. “Well, act like you’re not going up a hill,” his wife said, “but you’re still going to go up it!”

For a while, after their deaths, their residence was open to tourists who were apt to get exhausted touring it.

The diamond-shaped hall, placed in the center — its dimensions and spaciousness were rooted, were grounded as if the hall was growing as an ample area. It was finished in mahogany. The dominant message here being: “Looks like one of you splurged!”

None of this would have been possible without the involvement of morally strong, intelligent people who were then spent.

Young farmers and rural characters, obstetrical nurses, scholars, clergy — all the rest! — will have their great hopes realized more often than not — unless I decide to tell their stories.

True! Yes! Mother always gave me a tribute with a sigh.

I was her favorite, and that was another reason I took money from her that rightfully belonged to my sister and my brother.

My mother knew I needed to be a person with flair and I can be.

It may require a little time.

No lack of courage could have caused me to turn away from a day laborer on the foot pavement who sneezed a larger-than-life-size sneeze with an open mouth. Then he crossed himself multiple times, as I went by him.

It pained me to hold my breath while outdistancing him, and I wondered how far I’d need to go to keep free of any noxious air. I thought briefly I might count out the accurate, necessary number of cubic feet or yards.

But I was restful during a letup in the late afternoon, when my sister visited me. Her metal necklace caught at my shawl collar and it pulled loose a thread as I embraced her.

Her appearance needed some repair, too.

She is Liz Munson. She is a judge! She decides whether people live or die!

She declined a drink but ate a few of the hemp seeds I’d left out in my hors d’oeuvre dish.

“How is Maurice?” I said. “Did that one end?”

“He’s with the boys,” she said, and then took a pause to round out her lungs to their capacity.

Henry the cat put his paws up on me and called out a critical remark. Then he made his other noise that is tinged with bitterness. He is sand color in the style of the day with cement accents.

Liz’s Henry is black chestnut.

I’ll make no attempt to explain a cat’s problems that are basic to all cats — schemes that are unrealistic.

I held tightly, for an instant, on to Henry’s tail, when he moved to go far afield, for his suffering and his sacrifice — although the cat’s tail is a branch that refuses to break.

Henry had charm once upon a time. Now he wastes it stalking. “Stay and eat with me, Liz.”

“Oh, dear,” she said.

What had she come for?

My sister picked up a piece of bric-a-brac that was on the console and put it into the unimpressive realm of her handbag.

What I call a toy — what she took — was mine, never Mother’s: a leaden mammal of some sort, with horns.

Oddly, Liz has never noticed here her ten-pounder da Vinci omnibus with its gravure illustrations, its spine sensationally exhibited on a shelf, that bears this inscription on the frontispiece: To Liz and Neville, with best wishes for a happy life in a world of friendship and guz. (That last was illegible.) Signed Stephen and Lil Cole.

Leonardo may not have founded science, but I learned from him that genius does not bog down.