14
The temperature was 65 degrees, and late afternoon sun shone mellow between the trees, but there’d been three light frosts on the Chapel Hill campus, and the leaves were turning. The sweetgums were fiery red. Jenny Buckels noticed none of it. She trotted up the few steps and into the Charles B. Aycock Library. Her last class of the afternoon was over, and she wanted to check her mail before reporting to work at her dormitory dining hall. There was more anonymity in the library than in the computer room in her fourth-floor dorm wing, and the computer in her room was likely to be tied up by her roommate.
She chose a carrel in a back corner of the stacks, logged on, inserted her voice card and put on the headset. All she found in her box was an electronic notice of what she’d already been told. Then, on an impulse, she spoke the address of her brother’s office. He answered, looking tired.
“Hi, Sis. What’s new?”
“Nothing good.” It occurred to her then that Steven had to listen to the complaints not only of their parents, but his parishioners. And now here she was, about to recite her problems. “But it’s not really bad,” she added. “The U is like the rest of us; it needs to cut costs. Starting next week my pay’s being cut, but I’ll still get my meals.”
“Cut to what?”
“No cash, but I’ll get my meals. And I’ve already paid for my room through fall term, and my scholarship covers tuition and fees. And I don’t need new clothes. I just won’t have the money to drive home for Thanksgiving or Christmas, but I wouldn’t be doing that anyway.”
He nodded, which relieved her. She thought he might try to talk her into it.
“Dad wants to drive here for Thanksgiving,” he said, “but Mom’s gotten worse. You saw what she was like a month ago; she’s gotten more irrational since then. So Dorothy and I will drive there. With the kids,” he added, then paused. “Tell you what. Why don’t I send some money for gas, and you can drive here to Barlow the day after. We’ll have a sort of Second Thanksgiving at our house. Not fancy, but Thanksgiving.”
Jenny almost declined. Cash would be tight for Steve, too. But she accepted, because there was something to be thankful for, an important something: Steven and Dorothy, and the kids. Just now it seemed to her they were all that gave life meaning.
“How’s Dad doing?”
“Not well. Besides the stress of mom’s condition, he’s become . . . He hates the world. Fortunately he hasn’t become critical of me, and even more fortunately he remains really patient with Mom. There’s genuine love there. What’s unfortunate is, he denies to himself that she could be in the wrong, so he blames you for the upset.”
Jenny nodded thoughtfully. “How much blame does belong to me?”
He peered at her image on his screen. “Don’t think in terms of blame, Jen. Mom was looking for a fight with you. It’s the way she is now. We just have to accept that she’s not sane anymore.”
“And you’re carrying the whole load, while I carry none of it.”
“Hon, they wouldn’t let you carry any of it. That’s the way they are now, and it’s no fault of yours. They have every reason to be proud of you, but they can’t see it. It’s best for all of us if you keep clear of them.”
She didn’t say anything for a moment, then asked, “What’s going to become of them?”
He shook his head. “I suspect Mom will have to be institutionalized soon. When Dad can’t handle her any longer. Then—I don’t know what’ll become of him. He’s still functioning, but he’s emotionally unstable. He may slip into severe depression, even try to take his own life.” He pursed his lips, sighing. “I never imagined they’d come to this. It’s a matter of our times, of what the world’s become. And along with Mom’s MS, they’re not able to deal with it.” He paused. “I can’t help wondering if it’s not the time that John wrote of, actually coming to pass. The Biblical millennium.”