Sixteen by Jessamyn West
“Sixteen” by Jessamyn West
The steam from the kettle had condensed on the cold window and was running down the glass in tear-like trickles. Outside in the orchard the man from the smudge company was refilling the posts with oil. The greasy smell from last night’s burning was still in the air. Mr. Delahanty gazed out at the bleak darkening orange grove; Mrs. Delahanty watched her husband eat, nibbling up to the edges of the toast, then staking the crusts about his tea cup in a neat fence-like arrangement.
“We’ll have to call Cress,” Mr. Delahanty said finally. “Your father’s likely not to last out the night. She’s his only grandchild. She ought to be here.”
Mrs. Delahanty pressed her hands to the bones above her eyes. “Cress isn’t going to like being called away from college,” she said.
“We’ll have to call her anyway. It’s the only thing to do.” Mr. Delahanty swirled the last of his tea around in his cup so as not to miss any sugar.
“Father’s liable to lapse into unconsciousness any time.” Mrs. Delahanty argued. “Cress’ll hate coming and Father won’t know whether she’s here or not. Why not let her stay at Woolman?”
Neither wanted, in the midst of their sorrow for the good man whose life was ending, to enter into any discussion of Cress. What was the matter with Cress? What happed to her since she went away to college? She, who had been open and loving? And who now lived inside a world so absolutely fitted to her own size and shape that she felt any intrusion, even that of the death of her own grandfather, to be an unmerited invasion of her privacy. Black magic could not have changed her more quickly and unpleasantly and nothing except magic, it seemed, would give them back their lost daughter.
Mr. Delahanty pushed back his cup and saucer. “Her place is here, Gertrude. I’m going to call her long distance now. She’s a bright girl and it’s not going to hurt her to miss a few days from classes. What’s the dormitory number?”
“I know it as well as our number,”
The steam from the kettle had condensed on the cold window and was running down the glass in tear-like trickles. Outside in the orchard the man from the smudge company was refilling the posts with oil. The greasy smell from last night’s burning was still in the air. Mr. Delahanty gazed out at the bleak darkening orange grove; Mrs. Delahanty watched her husband eat, nibbling up to the edges of the toast, then staking the crusts about his tea cup in a neat fence-like arrangement.
“We’ll have to call Cress,” Mr. Delahanty said finally. “Your father’s likely not to last out the night. She’s his only grandchild. She ought to be here.”
Mrs. Delahanty pressed her hands to the bones above her eyes. “Cress isn’t going to like being called away from college,” she said.
“We’ll have to call her anyway. It’s the only thing to do.” Mr. Delahanty swirled the last of his tea around in his cup so as not to miss any sugar.
“Father’s liable to lapse into unconsciousness any time.” Mrs. Delahanty argued. “Cress’ll hate coming and Father won’t know whether she’s here or not. Why not let her stay at Woolman?”
Neither wanted, in the midst of their sorrow for the good man whose life was ending, to enter into any discussion of Cress. What was the matter with Cress? What happed to her since she went away to college? She, who had been open and loving? And who now lived inside a world so absolutely fitted to her own size and shape that she felt any intrusion, even that of the death of her own grandfather, to be an unmerited invasion of her privacy. Black magic could not have changed her more quickly and unpleasantly and nothing except magic, it seemed, would give them back their lost daughter.
Mr. Delahanty pushed back his cup and saucer. “Her place is here, Gertrude. I’m going to call her long distance now. She’s a bright girl and it’s not going to hurt her to miss a few days from classes. What’s the dormitory number?”
“I know it as well as our number,”