The white muslin curtain trembles gently. Eleanor, her finger slipped between the two thin strips of fabric, looks out over the sloping green lawn toward the garden shed, which her father had built for her and her brother. Nothing in it has changed: display cases filled with tiny porcelain figures, a table and chairs, her girlhood dolls. The cages Tom used to catch rats and mice are stored away in the attic. From behind, I can see a white tuft of Eleanor C. Kolman’s hair and the folds of a beige blanket wrapped around her. The dining room smells of coffee, dust, old wood, and an amply medicated body. A nurse in a blue uniform escorts me into the room. Judging from her abruptness, I assume she’s the one I spoke with yesterday at the gate. Small and wiry, with short dirty-blond hair and a face I’d forget even if I saw it every day. She gets her name from the virgin goddess Diana. “Miss Kolman!” Eleanor doesn’t stir. “The gentleman is here.” Diana walks to the wheelchair and turns it to face the room.
