She needed blood, they gave her blood, and the blood was poisoned. She died with a stranger’s germs cruising through her veins at a startling rate. The baby, a girl, lived. Her husband cared for the baby and in time remarried. Her father kept in close touch with his son-in-law, and took the baby every Saturday. He had wanted a grandchild badly, and he needed to keep the connection in memory of his daughter, who had been an only child. I say her father because her mother’s mind was opaque: what she felt or needed we shall never know. Her name was Harriet Gross. When I knew her, as a child and teen-ager, she was not clever or pretty or distinguished in any way. But she was very agreeable and free of malice, and all those who took the trouble to notice her liked her. She was never too busy with homework or dates, always ready for an impromptu visit or an aimless outing. She didn’t add anything special to a group, but you missed her if she wasn’t there. My mother had to tell me twice that Harriet died.
What do You think about Acquainted With The Night?
