The Woman of the House
by William Trevor
Martina didn’t comment on that, either. When the slices of liver were black she scooped them off the pan and put them on their plates with the eggs. She got him to the table. He’d had whiskey enough, she said when he asked for more, and nothing further was said in the kitchen.When they had eaten she got him to his bed, but an hour later he was shouting and she went to him. She thought it was a dream, but he said it was his legs. She gave him aspirins, and whiskey, because when he had both the pains would go. “Come in and keep me warm,” he whispered, and she said no. She often wondered if the pains had maddened him, if his brain had been attacked, as so much else in his body was.