She chose the ESL.
She applied to university, resolved to still going cleaning at night—an accounting firm, the lawyer’s office—and the acceptance letter arrived. Michael found her at the kitchen table. He stood, not far from the exact same place where, many years later, he’d be watched and interrogated by a mule.
“Well?”
He sat down closely next to her.
He watched the insignia, and letterhead.
Some people celebrate things with champagne, or a night out somewhere nice, but in this case, Penelope sat; she put her head against Michael’s side, and read the letter again.
* * *
—
And like that, the time flowed by:
They planted things in the garden.
Half of it lived. Half died.
They watched the Wall come down in November of ’89.
Through the slits in the back fence, they often saw the horseflesh, and loved the racing quarter’s other eccentricities—like a man or woman walking out on the road, midafternoon, with a stop sign to hold up traffic. Behind them, a groom would lead a horse across, likely 10-1 next day, at Hennessey.
The last and most important quirk of the place, though, already back then, was the number of forgotten fields; you only had to know where to look. In some cases, as we’re well aware, such places could hold great meaning—and one was near the train line. Sure, there would be The Surrounds, and the dying track at Bernborough—but this one, too, was crucial.
So I’m begging you please to remember.
It had everything to do with the mule.
* * *
—
Three years into Penny’s university course, the phone rang at 18 Archer Street; Dr. Weinrauch.
Adelle.
She’d died at the dining room table, most likely late at night, having just typed a letter to a friend.
“Looks like she finished up, took her glasses off and laid her head down next to the Remington,” he’d said, and it was sad and aching, but beautiful:
One last, lethal combination.
A hard-hit final full stop.
Of course, they drove straight out to Featherton, and Michael knew he was lucky, compared to Penelope. Here at least they could stand in the church and sweat beside the box. He could turn to the retired old doctor, and stare at his tie, which hung like a long-stopped clock.
“Sorry, son.”
“Sorry, Doc.”
Later, they sat in the old house, at the table, with her blue-rimmed glasses and the typewriter. For a while he contemplated putting a new sheet in and punching out a few lines. He didn’t, though, he just looked at it, and Penelope brought tea, and they drank it and walked the town, and finished out back, by the banksia.
When she asked if he’d take the typewriter home, he said it was home already.
“You’re sure now?”