With her other hand she rubbed her lower back and watched Debbie Fuller—now Deborah, since she was a mature twenty-five—yank out another clump of weeds. It had been a rainy spring, the dampness bringing with it a bumper crop of mosquitoes and weeds. Deborah caught Edith watching her and sat back on her heels and smiled. “Cigarettes are really bad for you, you know. They can even kill you.” Edith took a long last drag, then dropped the cigarette in the dirt before smashing it with the toe of her shoe. “Don’t be so dramatic, Deborah. I figure if life hasn’t killed me by now, I’ve still got a long road ahead of me. Besides, according to Lord Byron, ‘Whom the gods love dies young.’” Edith found the need every once in a while to remind Deborah that she wasn’t the only one with a good education whose life’s plans had been thwarted by circumstance. It was why she requested Deborah’s help in the garden: They both needed the mental stimulation.
