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"
Lena
?
"
he
whispered
.
She
sat
down
next
to
him
on
the
swing
,
in
her
nightgown
,
not
slim
the
way
girls
get
when
they
are
not
loved
at
seventeen
,
not
fat
the
way
women
get
when
they
are
not
loved
at
fifty
,
but
absolutely
right
,
a
roundness
,
a
firmness
,
the
way
women
are
at
any
age
,
he
thought
,
when
there
is
no
question
.
She
was
miraculous
.
Her
body
,
like
his
,
was
always
thinking
for
her
,
but
in
a
different
way
,
shaping
the
children
,
or
moving
ahead
of
him
into
any
room
to
change
the
atmosphere
there
to
fit
any
particular
mood
he
was
in
.
There
seemed
no
long
periods
of
thought
for
her
;
thinking
and
doing
moved
from
her
head
to
her
hand
and
back
in
a
natural
and
gentle
circuiting
he
could
not
and
cared
not
to
blueprint
.
"
That
machine
,
"
she
said
at
last
,
"
.
.
.
we
don
’
t
need
it
.
"
"
No
,
"
he
said
,
"
but
sometimes
you
got
to
build
for
others
.
I
been
figuring
,
what
to
put
in
.
Motion
pictures
?
Radios
?
Stereoscopic
viewers
?
All
those
in
one
place
so
any
man
can
run
his
hand
over
it
and
smile
and
say
,
‘
Yes
,
sir
,
that
’
s
happiness
.
’
Yes
,
he
thought
,
to
make
a
contraption
that
in
spite
of
wet
feet
,
sinus
trouble
,
rumpled
beds
,
and
those
three
-
in
-
the
-
morning
hours
when
monsters
ate
your
soul
,
would
manufacture
happiness
,
like
that
magic
salt
mill
that
,
thrown
in
the
ocean
,
made
salt
forever
and
turned
the
sea
to
brine
.
Who
wouldn
’
t
sweat
his
soul
out
through
his
pores
to
invent
a
machine
like
that
?
he
asked
the
world
,
he
asked
the
town
,
he
asked
his
wife
!
In
the
porch
swing
beside
him
,
Lena
’
s
uneasy
silence
was
an
opinion
.
Silent
now
,
too
,
head
back
,
he
listened
to
the
elm
leaves
above
hissing
in
the
wind
.
Don
’
t
forget
,
he
told
himself
,
that
sound
,
too
,
must
be
in
the
machine
.
A
minute
later
the
porch
swing
,
the
porch
,
stood
empty
in
the
dark
.
