Michael Malone - Weebly

mother of successful sons, benefactress of charitable
institutions, a woman who with her husband had
undoubtedly always done quiet good in the world, good
like Abernathy's willingness to help Chin Lam Henry.
Judith untangled a skein of green yarn. But the man's
eyes in repose were heavy with a sad confusion, his
hands moved uneasily, his mouth strained for
composure. Winslow Abernathy wasn't happy. Why?
She imagined a man so troubled by the injustice and
misery others endured that no private joy could solace
him. She imagined herself.
For Judith Haig imagined too much. The sorrow of
the world arrested her heart as the concept of infinity
arrests the mind. When Judith watched the news, she
imagined each of the stories spilling over the frame of
the lenses. Those who had worked a lifetime to own a
house that fire or flood annihilated in an hour.
"Insurance won't cover it, so I guess we're wiped out,"
they would say with nonchalant voices and baffled eyes
to the television cameras. How could reporters bear to
hear it? How could they bear to record the sobs of
survivors of plane crashes still in flames; of widows of