Ted turned his mother around and forced her head onto his shoulder. She wept quietly there and he held her. Because she was weeping, he felt relieved. If she hadn’t cried, he would have worried. It was almost always the ones who didn’t weep, didn’t show emotion, didn’t speak, who were liable to crack up later. Pretty much everybody knew that.
He knew, also, that she would soon do just about what she did.
She pulled herself away, blew her nose on a clean handkerchief with holes in it, and said,
“Imagine a tough old character like me! But I just couldn’t break up, in front of Ruth.
I had to take it evenly. Ted! I really hope, now, she’ll recover!”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” he answered. “Not a bit. She could come home here.”
“Do you think Henry would mind, if I tried having her here when the doctors say it’s possible?”
Ted looked into his glass, empty again. “Sometimes, I think the old man doesn’t mind anything this side of hell. He’s got more guts than grizzly bears.”
Mrs. Conner sniffled in a manner reminiscent of the younger Nora. “I know. And I’m glad I cried this out in front of you, Ted. Because now, I can tell him straight, without a whimper—if you promise not to tell on me, for being feeble-headed?”
He winked at her. She bustled to her feet. “Here it is nearly four o’clock and I’ve got twenty-odd guests to feed!”