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

Then they had golf together and they did trips. There was a French newspaper that would invite him to solve a technical problem. He was amazing that way.

They would playact around the occasion of having dinner. I’m not sure, but I’m afraid that they did it for every dinner. She would put on her best gown and wear the diamond ornament, which she felt free to pin anywhere on her garment if it was necessary for the brooch to cover up a soiled spot.

He wore black lacquer pumps, silk stockings that went up under the knees. His breeches were tied under the knees and he would have tails and white tie on. My mother would provide the basic meal — cod or lamb chops. He would provide — he loved to go to the store that was similar to Fortnum and Mason and buy smoked salmon, cheese, fruit in season, asparagus. They had cocktails at five o’clock. They would listen to the news and then they’d sit down to the table, light the candles. They would have their little feast together. Then after the meal, he’d sit down and do work in his room. His French was very good, so sometimes he translated manuals from French or the other way around. And before bedtime, they’d have a cup of tea together with a cookie.

He loved an existence of this kind and to eat food.

He died while he was still glossy and smooth at the dinner table between the fish with dill — a great favorite — outstanding with butter — and the boiled blue plum dumplings.

The gimcracks were set out on a jutting surface and the woman listened to the indoor crowd that made the sound of a storm in a dry forest.

Upon entering the mansion — referred to as “the castle” by the locals at that time — she saw the carvings in wood and in stone — and among them a white wolf with an open mouth, made from white limestone.

There was a broad blown cry from the woman that expressed her satisfaction.

By contrast, a man and a boy found the air inside difficult to breathe and they did not view the staircase or the urns in the niches as among the finest in the world. Nor had they walked in there with the notion that this will do .

But other people arrived who could be benefited by observing the luxury — so that the big place didn’t rub them the wrong way.

The woman eyed swords and sabers hung on the wall, all exceptional. Next to these was an oil painting in a bulky frame featuring a copper pot and eucalyptus leaves.

The woman stayed briefly in a location close by it.

The true state of things inside of the painting was unclear. The painting needed cleaning. The woman could not sufficiently experience either the fragrance of the leaves or the copper pot’s heavenly glow.

“Oh, sorry!” the man with his boy said to the woman.

Something had startled him also. He was a thin little man who held his face in his hands. “I don’t like this place do you?” he said.

He didn’t approach too closely. But the woman reached out and laid a hand on his arm and she gripped it.

Then both of her hands were pulling at his sleeve.

People who saw her putting a lot of effort into it wondered why.

She was carefully fashioned, vivid and polished, but should her desired result fail to be obtained — she’ll fade.

I admired her that she withdrew herself before her presence became annoying, but she was definitely putting herself forward to be available and friendly.

She remembered our names and our aggravations and she gently rapped on my husband’s shoulder to inquire if his rotator cuff problem had been remedied.

Well, I was impressed by that. This is my mother we are talking about!

But on a personal note, how shall I say? — she carried herself with grace.

She liked to wear this loosely knotted scarf, with a loop forward and with a knot, and with the ends of it drooping down her back.

I especially admired her odd selection of teacups and coffee cups and, I think, only once did I have a repeat presentation of a certain Denby Monsoon Veronica.

They were all very attractive — the cups — very flowerful, and the best of them had rims that would turn outward slightly in order to appear more than willing to release the tea.

There were plenty of pitchers and bowls and artwork, but their abundance never reached the level of hemming us in.

And oh, yes, there was one especially unusual amenity in the bedroom that we used — the tiny background noisemaker — that amongst its many other promises pledged it could sedate babies.

So you can understand, then, what we were doing — we were expecting benefits while visiting Mrs. Williams — my mother — for a few weeks.

She said, “Now we can walk and hold our coffee—” as she guided us to our room one Sunday, where there was the cross-eyed Sphinx that I love to get to see, with a ground-down nose, framed in gold.

Only she did keep saying, “I am so happy about that!”

Because I couldn’t be happy about any of the things she said she was so happy about and now I don’t remember what those things were.

But the fact that her citrus plant, when I watered it for her, had seemed to pull up its skirt to expose its private parts — does seem worth the mention.

We heard her go into her own room.

Then she opened and came through our bedroom’s louvered door with her complaint and where he could, my husband sat my mother down.

“What can we do?” we said.

“Call Jim! Hope for the best!” she said. “Do you have Jim’s number?”

We summoned Jim who wore a long black coat when he arrived, and Mother went crazy, but just as soon as Jim took the coat off, she was fine.

“Oh, she’s so worried!” Jim said. But Jim had had to plead with her, “What kind of calculation is this?”

“Now, you’re going?” Mother said. “Write it down!”

In large, over-styled lettering, Jim offered his instructions that were sound.

There were other local personalities who, however, never showed up — Janis Schlitz, Marilyn Issidorides, and the Dufferins — Mother’s neighbors.

I find I have an all-around vigilance. All of the time, I expect to be reached out to, by a particular person, at a particular time.

Today, a small woman — built like a small, strong man with pitted skin — said, “Gimme a cigarette. I doan like to ask.”

I was on foot on my way to the food mart. The woman was folding her hands over her belly, not just clasping her hands — she was braiding her arms, terminating them in the hand clasp with some energy and leaning over to accommodate the weight of her arms and of her hands, and at the same time attempting a dainty pose by placing her legs in a dancer’s position — in which the two legs were close to one another.

I was impressed by that. And when she came over to me I hoped that she would withdraw her presence before it became annoying, but she was definitely putting herself forward to be friendly and she was definitely in full progress. Perhaps she was having a mild attack — expecting me to be genial and gentle — well — at least well behaved.

It seemed to me as if there was an excellent impression I had made here in my favor.

The girl’s predilection is to trace her hand with a pencil on a piece of paper.

The mother made a rule that her daughter was responsible for something. And what could that be? — to be sulky and disappointed? — to be heavy and club-like? To be backward?

When the child finished her early education, she drew a picture of her future that consisted of a pair of legs, column-shaped, and just above them, the hem of a skirt in bright orange. The legs were decorated — as if wrapped in wallpaper — in pastel blue with red posies and their green leaves. The shoes were clumpy, earthy.