Marjorie had a general disposition of quiet wonder. At rest, her eyes were wide, her mouth gently ajar. Many men and women, young and old, had looked up to find Jorie staring at them, wearing her pat expression. Really, she wasn’t staring. Her eyes may have been fixed, but she didn’t see them.
Who could say what Jorie was thinking? If you sat beside her and were acquainted enough with her to speak, you might ask her, “What are you thinking about?” Jorie would blink at you, consider the question for a moment, and then, smile and tell you that she didn’t know, or she might simply say, “Nothing.”
She knew, of course, but would never say. She sat, in reverie, imagining fortresses of white stone, built out of and into a sheer cliff face. She saw rows of quartz horses marching, frozen in formation along the workbench of an aged artist. She followed alabaster stepping stones to the alabaster gate of an alabaster palace.
She sat in plastic chairs at laminated tables, on the thinly upholstered seats of a steel train on steel rails, on a leather sofa in a hardwood-floored house built of wood and wool and plaster, but she dreamed of rock, polished or roughly hewn, carved by chisel or shaped by the weather, paving the seaside or buttressing cathedrals.