"WILHELM, KATE - JUSTICE FOR SOME" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wilhelm Kate)

while doing the dishes, or backing the car out of the driveway, or
reading the newspaper, suddenly she would be blinded by tears.

She had not wept in court, but twice she had called a recess and fled to
Blaine's office, her office, and cradled her head in her arms on
Blaine's desk, her desk, and wept like a child.

"Three years, six weeks," she said silently. The hurt kept changing; a
physical hurt, her body demanding his body, aching for love, for a
caress, for a touch. Then, forgetting that he was not there, and
starting to speak to him, that brought a sharper pain, a
life-threatening spasm of pain. And anger. She could admit anger now,
and strangely, admitting it lessened it, lessened the intensity of the
pain it always brought with it. The pain of guilt was as fierce as it
had been from the start. They had quarreled; he had wanted her to go to
the ski lodge even if she had not wanted to ski, and she had said no.

Too much work, a case pending, just no. She did not like to ski, did not
like snow sports, did not like sitting in the lodge with other women
whose husbands were out on the slopes, and later would drink too much
and play cards most of the night.

She realized with a start that lights were coming on in Pendleton,
twinkling stars in the dusk below, and her legs were aching, her back
hurt. She had not done this for a long time, lost herself in glimpses of
the past, how he had come loping up the hill with sweat dripping, three
times a week. How he had hunched over the newspaper in the evening, how
he had looked up at her and smiled. His arms around her.

His body and hers joined in love. She hugged her arms about herself and
turned from the window. That was the hurt she could not bear, the need
her body had for his body, her need for his love, his passion and hers.

She had to do some laundry, had to eat something, had to start packing.

Instead, she went to the bedroom they had shared, that she had abandoned
after two weeks of trying to sleep in their bed without him.

She stood in the doorway; the room was spartan, the way he had liked
things around him. It was almost obsessively clean; she used to leave a
blouse on a chair, or panty hose on the chest of drawers, her purse on
the dressing table, something that indicated she lived here, too.

Now every surface was bare, the bed made with the green spread he had
liked, drapes closed the way he had liked them.

The children had come home for Blaine's funeral, had stayed with her for
the next two weeks, then had gone back to school. The night they left
she had made up the bed in Winnie's room and had slept in it, the first
night she had been able to sleep without pills. She had slept there ever