She would show them!
And so she would have, if not for that stubborn zygote. Who knew that at this late stage things could still take root? She had always given money to Planned Parenthood; she had no qualms in that regard, no qualms at all. Then why she did let nature follow its unruly course? It was the mystery lying at the deep heart of her. Or maybe the answer was simple: maybe she had for once in her life succumbed to sentiment, an occurrence so rare that it tended to confound her, like when she had paid to have Calvin’s first sneakers preserved in bronze.
Unborn Maggie brought everyone home. The shaving kit took up its post in the bathroom; the book of poems returned to the shelf. But pointedly life did not resume where it had left off—upon his return, it was difficult to escape the feeling that their father was anything more than a longtime visitor, there on sufferance. His stay in the carriage house had made him older, and now, like an abashed and absentminded relative, he tried to keep out of their mother’s way. Beatrice wondered if one day she and Calvin would sit down with Maggie over little glasses of sherry and, in the wistful manner of Russian émigrés, attempt to explain what life was like before. The fireflies, the linden trees, the dusky walk down to the edge of the lake—oh, such beautiful brawls! Their handsome father screaming and their lovely, long-haired mother in tears. (Someone forgot to pack the bathing suits.) Then the ceaseless, silent car rides home, with the rising moon close on their tail. The children carried up the staircase: girl in father’s furry clasp, boy in mother’s smooth one. Lying stiffly in bed, under the cool sheets, listening to more shouting from below. Or maybe instead (it was equally possible) to the sounds of the newspaper crackling, of something read aloud in a resonant voice, followed by elliptical laughter.
“And don’t you remember?” Beatrice would ask eagerly of her brother. “Don’t you remember the time we were all watching that dumb vampire movie—you know, the one with George Hamilton? We were watching it on Channel 56 and Papa comes into the room with his big Dracula laugh and your plastic fangs and a big glass of cranberry juice? He chased Mama all over the house…”
Incredible. Maggie would listen to their stories in disbelief. Are you talking about my father? My mother? She had grown up under an entirely different regime.
BACK INSIDE THEY EXAMINED their scratches, small and large. Everyone smelled agreeably piney. “Mission accomplished,” said Beatrice darkly. She would have to take her car coat to the cleaners. Dazed, she and Maggie held their hands beneath the kitchen tap, warming their fingers in the stream of hot water, until their mother walked by and turned it off. She was moving about the room in her old ballet, reaching and dipping, opening and shutting, and Beatrice felt with relief that perhaps the weekend had finally begun: for here was her mother, making them something to eat.
Maggie stationed herself at the table and flipped open a puzzle book. Her mouth found the comforting eraser again. Beatrice watched as a heavy, blank calm settled over her sister’s face.
“Hey!” said Beatrice. “Maggie! I have an idea. Why don’t you read Mama your new essay?”
“She doesn’t like being read to,” said Maggie slowly. “She likes reading things for herself.”
“She’s right,” said their mother, without turning from the counter.
At the far end of the table, Beatrice regrouped. “Not for her sake, for yours. Hasn’t anyone told you about the benefits of reading your work aloud? I make all of my students do it. You pick up mistakes. You hear the rhythm of your sentences. It’s a vital part of the revision process.”
“Oh, all right.” Maggie bent down wearily and dragged forth her backpack. Beatrice smoothed the tablecloth in front of her and tried to arrange her face into a disinterested expression. “Stand up,” she instructed. “Use your diaphragm, it’s good practice.”
“Practice for what?” Maggie asked, but then did as she was told. She held herself erect and read clearly from her notebook. The act of reading seemed gently to change her. She no longer stuck out one skinny hip or did unconscious things with her toes. Her voice was unaffected, pleasant to listen to, and only a few of the words gave her any trouble. As she read, a softness drifted over her like a veil. She looked young and promising and possibly lovely, like a girl her own age, like the girls at Beatrice’s school. She could easily have been one of them: on the verge of something, brimming. With what, it had yet to be revealed, but still there it was, that fullness. As she read, it appeared very possible that she wouldn’t be stuck forever behind the scenery, or pursing her lips above a flute, or folding the guest towels with fastidious content. As she read the words carefully from her notebook, her sister, listening, felt that there was hope.
Maggie looked up and smiled; the last sentence hung charmingly in the air. Beatrice beamed at her from the end of the table. By now their mother had paused in her chopping and was studying them both.
“That essay,” she said, “was about a musical.”
“Yes,” said Maggie, closing her notebook. “Cats.”
“But the play you did was The Caucasian Chalk Circle.”
“I know,” said Maggie. “But Cats just seemed to fit better.”
“Did you notice the parallels she made?” asked Beatrice. “Between the kids who work backstage and all the characters in the play? Each with their own funny
