I used to have a neighbor who was, to put it bluntly, rather weird. Her name was Alice Drummond. She must have been seventy-five, maybe eighty years old. Now I’m fully aware that the elderly have their own challenges, having to contend with everything from rheumatism to senility—but this lady could have won medals for her nutty behavior. Between her long-wilted picture hats and circa-1930 wardrobe, she reminded me of a cross between baggy-faced Baby Jane Hudson and her emaciated sister Blanche. Her eyes resonated with a sadness so profound it could sting—if you managed to pull off the rare feat of making any contact with her.

Who could say how many years had passed since she had installed herself on the third floor of this dumpy rooming house? What self-respecting individual would choose to live in a place that reeked of roach spray and cobwebbed wood? It was different for people like myself, twenty-five, free to explore the world—even if it only consisted of small town north America—and figure out what we wanted to do with our lives. I had come to Kirksville because of a hot job tip that turned out to involve overseeing a community garden. Miss Drummond was the epitome of a hermit who rarely showed her face except for monthly forays to the bank and post office. Otherwise, she had her groceries delivered and you might not guess she was actually alive except for her kooky midnight excursions

Once, sometimes twice a week on calm, clear nights, I would hear the creaking of her door, followed by the skitter-scatter of her narrow feet down the stairs. She would disappear down the pitch-black street to who-knows-where and I wouldn’t hear her footsteps until they woke me up again at six or seven the next morning. This oddball schedule of hers not only stirred up a ton of curiosity but gave me the chills­. My curiosity became so intense that I decided to follow old Miss Drummond late one night. My temporary position at the community garden was coming to a close. Besides, life in Kirksville was such a drag it could induce a lifelong teetotaler to leap into a 50-proof whisky barrel.

A decrepit, graffiti-spattered neighborhood like this was no place for anyone to be wandering around after dark—least of all white-haired and spindly Alice Drummond. But then, who could begin to gauge the suffering she might have endured during her decades on earth, suffering with the capacity to drive anyone beyond the outskirts of reason?

Late the following Friday, I idled the hours away playing solitaire in my twelve by fourteen square foot hole in the wall, waiting until I heard the pale clack of Miss Drummond’s feet descending the narrow stairwell. I slipped out of my room as cautiously as a mole scurrying through a cornfield crevice, locking my moth-eaten door behind me. Halfway down the stairs, I stumbled over a nail. Would it have killed the penny-pinching owner to install a single lousy light bulb in the empty socket overlooking the stairs?

An even inkier darkness confronted me as I edged past the front door with its whining hinges and stepped onto the deserted street. Hogan Road was such an insignificant cul-de-sac, so devoid of lighting I would have been amazed to see it recorded on any map. I gazed warily beyond its maze of potholes toward the single lamppost that marked Murray Avenue until I spotted Alice Drummond’s silhouette. She appeared to be heading for Chatton Woods.

Chatton Woods? The day I moved in here, Lloyd Pelvert, the janitor, told me that there had been a murder committed somewhere within that expanse of trees and gullies, something to do with ritual and slaughter. Many, many years ago. Now, I know that talk like that can usually be chalked up to typical small town lore—but why did my intuition take a turn for the leery whenever I walked past those acres of maples and pines? I paused beneath the cloud-smudged quarter moon, feeling hemmed in by a silence so intense it choked all remnants of logic and certainty. Alice Drummond must be nurturing some sort of a death wish.

For the next few minutes I hung onto the hope that she would take a left turn toward one of the few scattered clapboard houses en route to Chatton Woods. But no, that persistent old lady continued to walk, defiance belying her wobbly stride, directly toward the ragged gap of an entrance. I looked up at the sky as if I could wheedle it into coughing up any more light. No luck. The moon remained an adamant slice in the night-drenched universe.

I must have been about fifteen feet behind her, because I could barely make out her wraithlike figure. Willows, maples and elms loomed on either side like ominous, hulking ghosts as I entered the woods. Those trees, so beatific, green and graceful during the daytime had been turned into monstrous shadows, lighting a match to the fear in the pit of my stomach. As Miss Drummond’s feet crackled over dried leaves and dead twigs, each snap causing a fresh twinge of foreboding. I never had been one to feel at ease in the dark and tonight I felt as if hundreds of invisible entities were clawing at me.

The trepidation dragged on for ten minutes, each minute as interminable as an hour, until Miss Drummond took a treacherous turn into the dense shrubbery to our right. Incredible though it seemed, I had actually been able to keep track of her form in the near-pitch darkness. I couldn’t help congratulating myself on the fact that, in spite of my clumsy battle with underfoot roots and brambles, she hadn’t turned back even once. Was Alice Drummond deaf?

That turn to the right gradually lurched into a grassy decline. So caught up was I in keeping my balance, I had almost blotted out my fears of murder. What had I gotten myself into, I wondered again as I slithered over a cluster of weeds.

The hill and Miss Drummond came to an abrupt halt. She simply stood there in one spot, staring at something through the deep ramble of trees up ahead. As my eyes came to rest on a pale patch of moonlight bathing the treetops, I gradually discerned a clearing.

Five minutes passed before the frail old woman started walking toward the clearing, permitting me to ease out of my crouch behind a tree. A few forward paces brought me to the object of our shared midnight journey. There, protruding from the few gaps in those trees was what appeared to be a mansion. Neither Lloyd Pelvot nor anyone else had mentioned any old houses, never mind a mansion, out in the middle of the woods. As I squinted through the trees I could see that the mammoth house resembled one of those Victorian museum pieces, in need of a fresh coat of paint and a new roof.

Miss Drummond stalked toward the cavernous, rambling structure. I threaded my way along behind her until she came to a second abrupt halt. Panicking, I spotted a large structure about two yards to my right and, hoping not to trip over any stray pebbles or branches, I managed to move behind its protective bulk. Safely behind the structure, about twelve yards from the stairway leading to the mansion’s front door, I realized that I was standing under a statue. Peering around its square base, I watched Miss Drummond make her way, not to the front door but to what some might have called the servants’ entrance. This puzzled me, as the front door was not boarded up. In fact, it was one of the few aspects of the mansion that looked intact.

Just as I was about to ease out from behind the statue, the sound of Miss Drummond’s voice made me freeze. I had only heard her haughty yet melancholy voice twice. Once, when she had railed at a man who had mistakenly delivered Chinese food to her door. Secondly, when she had argued with Pelvert over garbage strewn on the landing. Who was there for her to talk to in a desolate place like this? I strained my ears but couldn’t make out anyone else’s voice, only Miss Drummond’s low, fervent and slightly bitter tone. This mystery was becoming far creepier than I had expected.

The talking continued for fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. My fear was slowly being eroded by overwhelming curiosity until I finally worked up the courage to step from behind the pedestal. I gave it a quick peek and noticed that the square pedestal contained a bronze Venus with poignantly slumped shoulders. I began to slink across the weedy front yard toward that side door. A measure of relief kicked in as a wispy cloud worked its way across the moon, aiding my intent on being invisible. Miss Drummond was unleashing a diatribe, her voice becoming more audible as I narrowed in on the raspy side door.

“I know you really care for me, even though you never say a word. But then you always were the silent type.” Miss Drummond paused and then, to my disbelief, emitted a sudden stream of giggles. “I told you we were perfectly suited for one another. Why didn’t you listen to me when I warned you about Mayah’s indifference? Well, you’ll just have to be content with your visiting rights until I can work out something more amenable.”

The hairs on my head began to prickle, as though each one was a separate, electric-charged entity. Even so, I was besieged by a compulsion to see what was going on behind that door. Just a quick look, I told myself. I eased closer to the opening and squinted tightly. Nothing. It was too dark. Miss Drummond paused and was now, I could tell by the sound of her feet across a dirt-cluttered floor, moving around as she spoke. There was another pause, followed by a tiny muffled splash. Was she pouring a drink? There was a glassy-sounding ‘clink’ and another muffled splash. What’s this, I wondered, stupefied, she might just as well stay home if she wants to get drunk and reminisce about the good old days.

“It’s a shame you insist on just sitting there like a piece of deadwood,” Miss Drummond snapped. “Just once, couldn’t you join me in a celebration toast?” This elderly woman had obviously lost all her marbles. It was high time somebody reached out to her. I steeled myself and yanked open the flimsy screen door. Enough was enough.

“Who’s there?” Miss Drummond spun around to face the intrusion. Although it was dark, I could see that she was standing about six feet in front of me. As she began to realize who I was, the terror in her tone instantly turned to anger. She is probably horribly embarrassed, I thought. All I could do was try to mouth something intelligible, something about taking a late night walk over to the woods and not expecting to see her there. In the middle of my paltry attempt at an explanation, she lashed out at me with every ounce of fury buried behind that chalky, sagging face she could muster, the words flying from her mouth with machine gun rapidity.

“How dare you intrude? Did somebody send you here? I suppose you’ve heard every word of my very private conversation. I’ll probably never have the solitude I deserve. And you young people are always whining about your elders not leaving you a moment’s peace. Well, nothing good will come from your spying!”

I could only stand there, completely dumbstruck as my eardrums absorbed every last verbal pellet. She was right, of course. How dare I track her down like that? Whatever panic had been running through my veins was rapidly being replaced by humility. How could I have let my imagination run away with me like that? I felt as though I had committed an offense, and the accompanying guilt was beginning to cut in when my eyes happened to fall on something in a corner of the dim, dank room. But wait, I thought.

“To tell you the truth, I was worried about you being here all alone in the middle of the woods.”

“Worried!” she scoffed. “I’m old enough to take care of myself so you can just turn around and go right back home.”

During my first seconds in that space, enduring her tirade, I had more or less begun to size up my surroundings. It was a small kitchen containing a stove, a pump-sink, a table, chair and tall, wooden armoire next to Miss Drummond whose bony fingers were gripping a small wine glass. One of the armoire’s tall doors was ajar and I could make out three or four bottles of wine or port on the middle shelf. The object that really grabbed my attention, however, did not belong in anyone’s kitchen—or even a decrepit old mansion, for that matter. No, this thing belonged in a graveyard, buried as deeply as possible beneath a heavy tombstone. The object, laid out along the floor to my left, was a corpse, approximately six feet in length. The brown, papery skin was pulled over bones so dry they were on the verge of crumbling.

Alice Drummond’s wrath, mingled with my horror of confronting that long-decayed body, provided me with the impetus to speak up. “You must be sick. Have you been talking to that—thing?” My tone must have been sufficiently direct, as my words caused old Miss Drummond to cease her momentary tirade. Her mouth clamped shut, her witch-gray hair spilling from under a once-posh, flower-studded panama hat, she stared at me, her luminous, downward-tilted eyes trying to psyche out my true intentions. The reality of where I was and what I had just seen was sinking in at such a rapid pace, panic came galloping back with a vengeance. All I could think of was getting the hell out of there as fast as my feet could carry me.

My unsettled nerves were given a respite when Miss Drummond decided to pick up the reins of her tirade. “I suppose you’ll be going and reporting me to the police now,” she muttered. “If you could only see this through my eyes… But then,” she sighed, “when it comes to murder, there are only the eyes of the law.”

Murder? I tried hard not to focus on the obvious and in the middle of my confusion, was surprised by the thrust of empathy that invaded my panic. “Please try to calm down, Miss Drummond. There’s nobody going to report to the cops.” Maybe it was the sight of tears streaking the woman’s lily-pale cheeks that compelled me to reach out to her. “Can you at least tell me whose body that is?” I motioned to the parched, malevolent, long-dead object.

“It is all really very simple.” She wrung her hands together, obviously taking great pains to keep her emotions from leaping out of their containment. “Hugh is the only one I will ever truly care for. He has been all mine for fifteen years now.”

“When you mentioned murder—” I winced, wishing there was a more diplomatic way to broach the central, pressing issue. “Well, that is, if there was a murder committed, did you have something to do with it?”

Her anger dissipating in the wake of memories swimming to the surface, Miss Drummond’s brown eyes glittered across the darkness of that moldy room. “Of course he loved me. He simply couldn’t show his true feelings. He claimed to love another woman. Or so his family wished. Mayah was just another rich girl. What did she need with another mansion? Her family had more than she would ever need for a lifetime of plenty. Oh, those greedy haves.” Her spindly hand brushed the long-dormant handle of the pump.

“So you were the one he really cared about?”

“Of course.”

“Why didn’t Hugh marry you?” I was feeling more bizarre by the minute, standing there in the near-pitch darkness of that isolated, rotting old mansion, completely cut off from the world.

“I was a cook for the Chatton family and—“

“Chatton? So that is how the woods got their name?”

“Yes, yes,” Miss Drummond took that opportunity to gulp down the remainder of her wine while her gesturing around her. “This was the Chatton mansion. As for the woods— Well, in those years they were more of a backdrop. This whole area used to be magnificently manicured. Beautiful gardens that stretched for two acres and a lovely main road that stretched right up to the front doors.

“So how did you know the Chattons?”

“I was only fifteen when my father was killed in a terrible factory fire. My mother was left high and dry, nary a penny in the bank. She took me over to a neighbor who promised to mind me until she returned from grocery shopping. But she never did come back. That dear neighbour took pity on me, not only formally adopting me but continuing my upkeep at the Wilburly Academy for Girls. My parents had struggled hard to get me in to that hoity-toity place. So life went on as though nothing had happened. But of course, it had. She sighed. “My cooking skills had garnered me quite a reputation at the Wilburly Academy and somebody recommended me to the Chattons. Part time stuff, three times a week—it was all rather fun. Somebody drove me up here to this gorgeous dream castle and I all I had to do was make one of my Silver Angel Cakes. Oh, that pearly marzipan icing—”

“Did you meet Hugh while you were working here, then?” I paused, trying to ignore the fact that I was within such close reach of that dried-up corpse.

“Oh yes. That stunning rascal had his eye on me the minute I first set foot in this house. We enjoyed furtive rendezvous, mostly sweet walks through those spectacular gardens. The more we saw of each other, the more we began to talk about spending the rest of our lives together.” Miss Drummond was pinching the stem of her wine glass with such intensity I expected it to snap at any minute.

“Something obviously went wrong,” I cut in, “if you—or somebody—had to go and commit murder.” The stale air of that dank kitchen was irritating my breathing.

“You’re racing ahead,” muttered the old woman. “Now, the family had other ideas. Long before we met, he had become engaged to Mayah Westerlong, the sole heir to a railway fortune over in the town of Porterville.”

“Why didn’t Hugh break off the engagement?” I asked.

Miss Drummond looked down at the sad object of her affections. “Both families were counting on that marriage. Their futures were completely tied up in the money, the ambition, power. No way in hell,” she placed her wine glass next to the bottles on the middle shelf of the armoire, “was I going to settle for being a kept woman.”

“So the situation came to a boiling point?”

“One evening, we were all preparing for a big party. There were so many parties back then, but this was to be the party to end all parties. All of the cooks and servants were called to the mansion that week. Everyone was counting on my Silver Angel Cake. It was the tensest time in my life. I was to quadruple the batch and a pastry chef was called in to transform my cake into an edible miniature of the Chatton mansion. Complete with green-tinted marzipan gardens!”

“Amazing,” I murmured, trying to picture the mad weedy tangle around me back its sumptuous glory days.

“Most amazing of all,” stuttered Miss Drummond, “ was my ability to think, let alone bake a masterpiece cake, in the midst of such circumstances.”

“Circumstances?”

“The centerpiece of this party was to be the announcement of Hugh and Mayah’s impending nuptials. I felt so sick and so sad, I could barely lift a teaspoon of baking powder.”

“I can imagine,” I said, wondering how she had been able to keep all of this inside for so many years.

“No, you can’t imagine. Until it happens to you.” There was a muffled splash as Miss Drummond poured herself another glass of wine. Or was it port? In any case, she didn’t offer me any. “Well, the party was a tremendous success. Everyone showed up, from the mayor to the neighboring hoi polloi. Hugh looked magnificent in his dark green tuxedo. Worst of all, Mayah looked like a princess in her floor-length cerulean blue silk dress. Her curls looked as though they had been dipped in that afternoon’s setting sun.”

“I take it that your cake was a success,” I interjected.

“Oh yes, it was the main attraction!” she exclaimed. “And because I was a member of the Wilburly Academy, I was permitted to attend the party. Everyone congratulated me, spoiled me with compliments and accolades. But it all meant nothing to me. I could see and hear Mayah in the corner of the ballroom, lording it over everyone and not so secretly snickering at my dress and shoes.”

“Snickering?”

“There was nothing wrong with either. The women at the school had personally helped me pick out a dress at Coley’s, the nicest shop in Kirksville. A pale pink, three quarters length silk, complete with silk rosette on the shoulder. And matching pumps.”

“It sounds like you were the belle of the ball, so to speak.”

“No, no, nothing that dramatic. Hugh did become somewhat upset,” she revealed with a faint whiff of pride, “when he saw the number of handsome young men asking me to dance. All of which didn’t go down too well with Miss Westerlong.”

“So Mayah knew what was going on between you and Hugh?”

“Don’t rush me.” Miss Drummond gazed over at the single battered chair the room had to offer. I remembered to ask her if she would like to sit down. “Thank you, but no. I’ve been sitting all my life or so it seems. I just happen to be looking at that old chair because Hugh was sitting in it the very last time I saw him alive.”

“Really?”

“Yes, that chair was originally part of a second floor sitting room. Beautiful fabric. Bright colored floral motif against a swan-white background.”

“How did the chair get all the way down here?” I couldn’t help wondering.

“I put it here,” Miss Drummond said abruptly. “Took a lot of hauling and hoisting, but I did it. That was years ago, not too long after the old mansion was boarded up. Don’t ever use the front stairs by the way—they’re so rotten, you’d crack and tumble all the way to the bottom of the cellar.”

“Yes, this place is falling apart,” I said.

“Anyhow. About midway through the party I decided to go upstairs to the powder room. On my way there I caught Hugh’s voice. I know it’s not polite to snoop, but I couldn’t help it. I tiptoed across the landing past the sitting room. Suddenly, I heard Mayah, putting on her little-girl act. And Hugh—“ Miss Drummond’s voice cracked at that moment, “—was lapping it all up.” Shaking, she placed the wine glass on its now familiar shelf.

“Here,” I walked over to her, took her gently by the arm and led her over to the once-opulent relic of an armchair. “Sit down.”

Even before she settled into the damp, sagging chair, she continued her story. “There they were. On the knotted wool Persian carpet Hugh’s father had just brought back from an overseas business trip. Mayah flat on her back, Hugh directly on top of her, their empty champagne glasses tipped over next to their heads. Disgusting! I had never seen a sight so carnal, so crude.”

“What did you do?”

“I certainly couldn’t let either of them know that I was there. Besides, I was in such a state of shock, all I could think of was getting out of that room as quickly and quietly as possible. I somehow managed to make my way back down the stairs. All the while, my mind was echoing a single command. To find the champagne and the arsenic.”

“Champagne—and arsenic?”

“I knew where they kept the arsenic. At the very back of the pantry in an unlocked box. I located it without anybody seeing me, just reached in and scooped out some the powder into a tiny pink velvet bag I carried around my waist. Part of my ensemble,” she added proudly. “Next, I went into a section off the ballroom where the champagne was being poured before being served to the guests on silver trays.”

“So you put the arsenic in the champagne?”

“Stop rushing me.” As she sat there in the old chair, her breathing became less laboured. “At that point, the party was in full swing, everybody had had more than their fair share of drink and the servants were taking it easy. There was nobody in that annex except me and I made sure that nobody was watching when I took the glasses—on a silver tray of course—over to one corner and sprinkled some powder into one of the drinks. I placed a wine glass charm with a gold ballet slipper on the stem of that glass and a star charm on the other. Why would Hugh ever drink from a glass decorated with a ballet slipper? It was to be Mayah’s last drink.”

“As calmly and as nonchalantly as I could, I carried that tray all the way up the stairs to that attractive sitting room. Hugh and Mayah were still engaged in their carnal activity. I placed the tray on the mahogany table between this chair—” she patted the left armrest “—and its twin. I then headed oh-so-quietly back to the doorway, picked up a book and dropped it loudly on the floor. I knew that would wake them up,” she smiled.

“The next hour was to be the most difficult and the most painful hour of my entire life. It was as though the time itself had stopped and I began to believe that I would remain trapped in that single, horrifying moment for the rest of eternity.”

“Did Mayah drink the champagne?” Curiosity was driving me out of my mind.

“Of course not.” Miss Drummond sounded as though she was speaking from the bottom of a deeply dug grave.

“Did—”

“I don’t know why he did it and I shall probably never find out. Maybe they were just too drunk to notice. But for some reason Hugh chose the glass on which I had placed the ballet slipper charm. Manny the butler came down that grand white staircase in such a crazed state, everyone was sure he would lose his footing and tumble head over heels to the bottom. Somehow, though, he made it all the way down in one piece, his face as white as the staircase. But my face must have been even whiter because of what he had to report and because of the screams coming from the second floor.”

“Hugh was dead?”

“Doctor Chauvin was attending the party. He raced up that staircase as fast as Manny had hurtled down but it was too late. Nobody could do anything. I had killed Hugh. It would have been better, had I put a knife through my own heart.”

“Nobody ever figured out what had happened?”

“Oh, they found out quickly enough that he had been poisoned. It wasn’t long before they found the traces of arsenic in the champagne glass. Somehow, nobody ever dreamed that I was the culprit. I was just the last person anyone would ever have suspected. Hugh and I had worked so hard to keep our affair—if you could call it that—a secret, nobody, not even Mayah, knew about it. Three of the servants were hauled in for questioning but released when no real motive could be ascertained.”

“What did you do?”

“The days, the months and a few years passed. I tried to get on with my life and moved away from Kirksville. The Chatton family was absolutely devastated. They boarded up the mansion and moved somewhere overseas. London, I think. Mayah married into some other well-to-do family about two years later.”

“When did you decide to move back here?”

“It’s been twenty years. What a wasted life. I never married, of course. How could I have ever given myself to anyone but Hugh? He has been in every one of my dreams from the first day we set eyes on each other. Seventy years ago. And when I am not dreaming I might as well be. I spend every waking minute begging for Hugh’s forgiveness.”

“When did you start coming back here?” I gazed around the darkened kitchen, my eyes avoiding the pathetic, withered subject of her lifelong homage.

“The mansion, you mean, and all of this?” Miss Drummond gazed around the dark old kitchen. “For years, I had been receiving anonymous envelopes stuffed with cash, each accompanied by the same simple typed message: ‘To assist you in your daily needs.’ I always assumed that one of the kind ladies at Wilburly, maybe the English teacher or one of the administrators, had made it her duty to look out for me. Because of that money, I never had to worry about paying the rent. One day, the envelopes stopped coming. I was getting older. I don’t know what it was that compelled me to come back to Kirksville and install myself in that cheap rooming house. One afternoon, I decided to take a walk in the Chatton Woods. I wasn’t planning anything, just walking along, trying to drown my nerves in trees and birds and nature’s quiet. It was snowing very lightly. I looked up at one moment and found myself face to face with the old mansion.”

“That must have been a strange experience.”

“As a matter of fact, seeing the caved-in roof, the peeling paint and the wreck of that magnificent garden made me feel strangely at ease. At first, I didn’t venture any closer than the Venus statue in the front yard. But then, a thought occurred to me. A more personal way I could pay tribute to Hugh. And have him all to myself.”

“You dug up his grave?”

“That wasn’t as difficult as you’d think. Determination can provide a surprising amount of energy, even strength. The family plot used to be just outside where the gardens ended. All I needed was a shovel and a wheelbarrow. The digging took a couple of hours. The coffin was sealed but I eventually managed to smash it open. I gently tied ropes around Hugh’s body and oh so slowly, pulled him up out of the ground. Then up onto the wheelbarrow. It took a great deal of pulling, and trying to fight through all that shrubbery along the way, but I got him here.” The old woman heaved an exhausted sigh. “At least once a week, for the last twenty years, Hugh and I have spent our nights together.”

I felt as exhausted as Alice Drummond as the full impact of her revelation began sinking in. The glitter in her eyes flickered to a subdued glare. She was badly in need of help, there was no doubting that. And yet, she was surely beyond all help. I certainly had no intention of contacting authorities about this long dead murder mystery. Not yet. I would feel even more ridiculous than I had when I first decided to follow her. All I could think of was getting back to my room and enveloping my mind and body in sleep. And so, I patted Miss Drummond’s shoulder. There was nothing left for me to say.

She smiled sadly and gestured to the door. “Go on home now,” she murmured, “you look like you need some sleep.”

Two months later, I was startled to see Alice Drummond’s photograph on the front page of the Kirksville Examiner. The accompanying article stated that the old spinster had been found dead, alongside an as-yet unidentified corpse, in the old Chatton mansion. The cause of death was attributed to arsenic poisoning, traces of the substance found in the empty wine glass next to her body. There was a suicide note, in which Miss Drummond encapsulated the long-lost truth behind Hugh Chatton’s untimely demise. In the obituaries column of that day’s paper there was a picture of one Mayah Stanthrip whose prim, well-fed and elderly smile resonated an uncanny mirth across the gray newsprint landscape.

~

© 1980 Sonja A. Skarstedt
[Originally Appeared as "Something to Forget"
in The McGill Observer]

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