Heat hangs in the air, lingering like dust mites in the rooms as if they haven’t been cleaned. Where I sleep near the roof, it’s as hot as the big kitchen stove. It’s early when I go out to clean the henhouse, feed the birds, and gather the eggs. The hens cluck and flap their wings, running round in circles as if trying to tell me something. Perspiration trickles down the back of my dress. I’d twisted my hair up this morning to keep it off my neck. If only there was a breeze, just for a minute. What wouldn’t I give to lie in the grass under the apple tree? The leaves on the big maple hang so still, they look as if they’ve been painted on. Back in the scullery I wash the eggs, hating the sight of the specks of blood on the eggshells more than usual. I’d better watch myself today; heat makes adults irritable, quicker to find fault. Mrs. Dunn is keeping to her room with a nervous headache. That means extra trips up and down stairs with cold compresses. I sweep the dining room and hall and wipe down all the woodwork, upstairs and down, with a damp cloth.
