He held her against him.
Rain and windshield wipers and thoughts mixed.
Going to Lena's room, glad of the family house, he felt dirtier than ever, perhaps he could have changed, somehow, somewhere: it was Claude who urged him to see Lena at once--no, don't wait to change. Orville respected Colonel Ronde for manipulating this brief leave: would he be arriving in E soon? Walking through the living room, Orville was comforted by the rose grey of the carpet, the oval mirror, the bust of Chopin, the piano. Ascending the staircase he heard the downpour hit the roof.
Home ... yes ...
A priest confronted him at Lena's door and shook hands, saying nothing. Orville went in: her room smelled of medicines; her oxygen tank reared up alongside her bed; its red plastic handle grinned; her plasma bottle hung on its chromium hook--and nodded.
Lena's face was deep in the pillow.
"She's dead," the priest said in an unemotional voice. "She died about a half hour ago ... she was unconscious, then the end."
Then the end, Orville repeated to himself.
If my train had been on time? he asked himself.
He stared at the priest accusingly, rudely: had he done anything to help Lena? His fat bearded face was noncommittal. The man's eyes were as dead Lena's: such apathy.