Churchill

In April 1940 Chamberlain’s government fell. Reading a biography of Churchill, Dorrie was quite fascinated. Chamberlain had simply been anxious and shrinking. Winston Churchill--what a hawk!-- took over as prime minister. Churchill wrote later. "I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears, and sweat."

Blood, Sweat, and Tears? Had that been a song or a rock group? Outside at the library cafe, sun on the umbrella, the papers and books in her backpack spread out across the table, Dorrie was reading one of Churchill’s autobiographies and a biography practically simultaneously and nerously drank coffee.The coffee was not recommended by her doctor but Dorrie figured she could do what she wanted. Forty-five, still barely alive, she could drink coffee if she wanted. Her doctor thought she would delude herself that she was a genius if she drank too much coffee.

Isn’t that manic? Since when am I manic?

We allow no caffeine in the hospital. It’s decaf for a reason.

You couldn’t drink and take meds. Once she had tried a glass of wine and had been exhausted and faint in a matter of minutes. Coffee was different. it did nothing. It was social. She could sit in the cafe and be among people.

Whom could she ask about Blood, Sweat, and Tears? That man over there at the table? No, he looked too respectable. But if they were a band, what on earth had they played?

Rose or Gabrielle would have it in a minute. Rose had apparently spent her youth listening to music and Gabrielle had listened to her father’s. Dorrie had skipped the music course. That’s how she put it.

The sun felt so good on her face. Snow was melting. Her boots were soaked. It puddled up in the day and froze by night.

Dorrie had a theory. You could read anyone’s life and study your own. Biographies were not her interest, but she was reading everything about Churchill. Once started it was seductive. She especially liked Churchill’s memoirs and had finished the third volume of Churchill’s Second World War.

I don’t know. Why am I thinking about rock music? That’s wacky. The connection between World War II and rock? I don’t think there’s supposed to be one. I think it’s all about jazz and blues.

Her thoughts were confused. Hadn’t always been. She leaned over and asked the man at the other table, Do you know anything about Blood, Sweat, and Tears?

You mean haveI personally been tormented? He laughed at her.

I’m trying to figure out if it was a band or a song. You see there’s this quote from Winston Churchill...

She saw his eyes do that thing people's did. The mention of Winston Churchill and Blood, Sweat, and Tears.. Well, she’s crazy. But I’m not, she wanted to say aloud. It was a funny thing. He had been interested in banter when she asked her question but had stopped taking when she had become serious--AND had stopped taking her seriously. It had taken about two seconds of non-one-liners. He had not allowed her to explain her thinking. It was not disconnected thought. But she thought and talked in narrative form.

Well, once they had given up there was nothing you could do.

She took off her coat. She sat in the sun wearing sweater, jeans, and wet boots. People laughed at her. She knew they did.

A woman sat down at the table and said, I guess it is warm enough out here.

Dorrie looked at her warily. The woman looked presentable, if a little coarse: there were other empty tables, though. What did the woman want from Dorrie? it couldn’t be good. It was like the gangs at the malls: Dorrie had read about them in The Snowden Jounral. They worked in pairs or trios and stole purses, merchandise, whatever they could get.

Dorrie knew that the man who had dismissed her was all right, that the woman was not. Frowning, she told the woman, I’m expecting someone. You’ll have to sit somewhere else.

Dorrie was thrilled with herself. She had toughened up again.

She thought crime was on the rise among women. The stats wouldn’t admit it, but the stats were just what the police said. Dorrie had seen the change. Malls and libraries had gone from places where middle-class people went and homeless people hung out to places where criminials looked for marks.

But you couldn’t stay home all the time.

When Ben came to see her, she was actually glad.

Hello, my fiancee, he said.

Well, it’s not definite.

The man who had thought her crazy now looked at her with interest. Of course it seemed this man knew Ben. They exchanged a few words and Ben introduced Dorrie as his future wife.

It’s not definite, she said.

The two men laughed. The man, an art professor, thought Dorrie was a card. Then it came to Dorrie. This man wrote poetry. She recognized his name. He was the one Rose slept with!

Suddenly she didn’t want to be around.

I have to go in for a minute and checck something in a reference book. Will you get me a croissant? she asked Ben casually.

Inside she looked up Blood, Sweat, and Tears. It was a band.

When she came back outside, the professor was gone.