I would have buried this under a waning moon in your yard, as medieval women did with their enemies.
And . . . ?
You would have commenced to rot. The younger woman pauses. Of course you are already rotten in mind and spirit, she says. Both men, the older and the younger, sit up and pay attention. This is serious. These are words that can’t be unsaid.
This would pertain to the body. It would start inside. With the heart. Then the other organs. You would start to stink out. The decay would reach your outer epidermis. It would start to disintegrate. And the scavengers would take care of the rest. Your eyes. Your genitalia. Your extremities—your ears, toes, and fingers.
The older woman laughs at this. She seems delighted. I always forget you studied medieval history before medical school. What a potent combination!
This is not an anecdote, the younger woman says. It’s a warning. You would be well served to pay attention to it. And she begins to put the picnic things away, as if a reasonable conversation between reasonable people has just concluded.
Magdalena is no longer writing. The notebook and pen lie in her lap.
What about the men? And the children? What were they doing while these things were being said? she asks.
They are the audience. The necessary audience. For these women are nothing if not expert dramatists.
But the children!
Yes, the children. Exactly.
But what happened next? she asks.
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The effects of the wine wore off, they drove home together in one car, crowded elbow to elbow. The little girl was too young to have taken it in. The boy kept his own counsel. No adverse effects.
They arrived home, unpacked the car. The women kissed each other, kissed each other’s husbands. The husbands shook hands. They went into their respective houses. And continued as if nothing had happened.
So your marriage wasn’t over, says Magdalena. It is not a question.
Peter speaks.
It may have suffered a temporary hiccup. But no one moved out. No one served papers. The younger man and woman continued to exhibit the same respectful camaraderie. If it was an act, they performed it well. No one ever saw a crack in it.
What happened to the money? I take it that the . . . theft . . . or whatever it was, stopped, asks Magdalena.
Yes. There was never any scandal, no trial, no prison. But the couple ceased going on expensive trips, buying costly furnishings, rugs, artwork. Still, they continued to live seemingly happy lives.
And what about the two women? asks Magdalena.
The same. It was as if the day had never happened. As if a group memory had been erased. A folie en quatre dissipated.
The bearded man speaks up. And you remember, he says to me. Of all things, this story survives. He sighs heavily. It’d be best if this conversation hadn’t taken place, he says.
He gets up to leave, and something about the way he stands, favoring his right leg, causes something to spark. You’re Peter, I say.
He sits down again. That’s right, he says. That’s right. He smiles. It is a lovely smile.
Peter! My dear, dear friend! I lean over and hug him. No, hold him. I have trouble letting go.
It’s been years! I say. What made you stay away so long?
Actually, it’s been just eighteen months since I left. But it’s seemed like a long time. I didn’t have much reason to come back here. Not until . . . recent events.
You mean Amanda being murdered?
He gives a short laugh. Yes, that.
How are you holding up?
Not great. Thanks for asking. It’s funny—well, not funny, but naive—for people to think that just because there’s been a split all emotional connection is broken.
I know. I saw it all the time at the hospital. The divorced couples had the most touching scenes in the recovery room.
Magdalena touches my arm. I flinch and draw away. It’s time to get dressed, she says.
I look down and realize I am still in my nightgown. I blush. Of course, I say. I’ll be right down.
But something happens. At the top of the stairs I lose my bearings. There was an idea in the back of my mind. Some intent. Now gone. Just a dim hallway, lit only by light coming from open doors.
Through them I glimpse neatly made beds, sun streaming through windows. I feel a vein throbbing in my neck.
