Gwen’s schoolwork and joke about the decrepit tomcat who lives in their garage and eats the tins of food they leave out for him, but coolly pretends not to know them. They speak of anything and everything, except what is happening to their family. They manage, however, to talk around it.
Are you happy there? her father has asked Gwen in a puzzled tone. Do you want to stay? Do you want to come home? How is your mother? he asks, always.
She lies to her father. Apparently lying must run in their blood, because it’s getting easier for Gwen as well. Don’t worry, we’ll be home soon. Definitely by Thanksgiving. That’s what she says, when in fact she knows her mother has already accepted Louise Justice’s invitation for the holiday. What should she tell him? That she wants to stay on as much as her mother does? That the boy she’s crazy about is her first cousin?
Yesterday when Gwen spoke with her father, she had an idea that he knew what was happening in spite of her lies. He listened, all right, but when she was done telling him how they’d be back before long, he asked if he should come see them. He could get reservations and be there by tomorrow, or the next day, or early the following week.
Gwen thought about the look on her mother’s face that time she saw her kissing Hollis in his parked truck. She thought about the way her mother’s eyes had closed, and how she’d arched her neck.
“I don’t think so, Dad,” she said to her father. “This might not be a good time.”
Tonight, Gwen goes to her room at ten-thirty, to bed she says, but really to phone her father, and after that, to call Hank. She leaves Susie waiting in the kitchen, and she can’t help but feel a tinge of satisfaction when she thinks how surprised her mother will be to find good old Susie parked in their house. It’s nearly midnight by the time March does get home. There’s a full moon out, and frost on all the fields. March lets herself in the door quietly, but the damned dog barks to greet her.
“Be quiet,” March tells Sister.
March’s face is flushed from the cold. They’ve stopped checking into that awful motel, and have begun to go to that funny little room off the kitchen March never even knew existed when she used to visit the Coopers. The room must have been meant for a maid or a cook; maybe it was Antsy-the cook responsible for all those delicious meals-who lived there. It’s a dingy, chilly place, but that doesn’t stop them any more than the knowledge that Hank is upstairs finishing his homework.
It has come to this: They don’t give a damn about anyone but themselves. It’s true, so March will just have to admit it. It’s always been this way when they’re together, and it’s happening all over again. Why, at this point March isn’t even certain she exists without Hollis. When she leaves their bed, in an attempt to get home and pretend to her daughter that their lives are still normal, that’s the time when she feels as if she’s entered into a dream. Everything seems gray and she’s unsteady on her own, as if a strong wind could tip her over. If she stopped to think about what she was doing, she wouldn’t believe it. Less than an hour ago, while Hank was studying for a math exam, and her daughter was left alone with a lie, March was down on her knees in that small room off the kitchen, not caring about anything but pleasing Hollis. The floor is old pine, and rotting, and now March feels tiny splinters in her palms and her knees. Hollis is a different kind of lover than he used to be. He was always sure of himself, but now he wants to be completely in control, and March doesn’t fight that. In a way, it’s a relief. March doesn’t have to think when she’s with him, or make a decision, or state a preference. She can tell, from the way he touches her, that he’s been with a lot of women, too many, but she’s the one he wants, and she always has been, and that alone makes her forget all reason.
“Stop it,” March whispers to the dog when it jumps up to greet her.
“Sneaking in?”
Susanna Justice has been standing in the hallway, watching as March gingerly removes her boots.
“Good Lord,” March says, clutching at her chest. She’s wearing jeans and a pale blue sweater Judith Dale sent as a birthday gift years ago. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”
“Here’s the thing I’m upset about. Why is it that everyone in town knew about it before I did?”
“Knew what? That I was having a heart attack?” March takes her coat off and hangs it in the closet. By now, every word she says feels like a lie.
“That’s not what you’re having,” Susie says.
So, March sees that Susie still has the annoying habit of judging others.
“Whatever I’m doing is my business.”
“Don’t you realize everyone is talking about you? Your love life is the main topic of conversation in town.”
“And have you been defending me?” March says, with a bitter edge.
“I defended you to your daughter. Sort of.”
“Oh, shit.” March’s cheeks are now flushed bright pink. “I told her I was out with you.”
“Do you think she’s an idiot?”
“Do you think I am?” March says.
“Actually, yes.”
They both grin at that notion.
“I think you’re insane,” Susie hastens to add.
March’s grin widens, the big smile of someone who no longer cares about sanity.
“I’m serious,” Susie says.
“Overly so,” March agrees.
March insists on making some tea; once they’re in the kitchen, she fills the kettle, sets it on the stove, then grabs a bag of chocolate chip cookies and brings them to the table.
“You don’t know the things people say about Hollis, March.”
“Please.” March bites off half a cookie. “They’ve always disliked him.”
“I’m not talking about silly remarks about how he made his money.” It’s all so unsubstantiated Susie knows she shouldn’t say more. As a reporter she should kick herself for passing on unfounded suspicions, but this is her oldest friend. In good conscience, she can’t keep her mouth shut. “My mother thinks he may have had something to do with Belinda’s death.”
March looks at Susie, wide-eyed. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Well, I’m not. She told me so at dinner.”
“It’s ridiculous. Does she have any proof? Did the police ever suspect Belinda’s death was anything but normal?”
“My mom saw bruises on her.”
“Come on. And for all these years your mother never said anything? And what if she did see a bruise? For all we know, Belinda could have had a boyfriend on the side who beat her.”
“So you think she might have been beaten?”
“I think people hate Hollis-your mother included-just because he won’t put up with their bullshit. Can you understand why he’s so suspicious of everyone?”
Susie bites into a cookie. Louise Justice doesn’t usually make false accusations, and Susie still feels something grating at her. “I’m worried,” she says.
“You’re always worried.”
“I still wish you would have told me,” Susie says.
“Well, I would’ve.” March grins. “But I thought you’d disapprove.”
“Who, me?”
“Yes, you.”
They both laugh. No one, after all, could disapprove more.
“Stop worrying about me,” March says. “You don’t have to.”
A friend is someone you tell the truth to, but Susie stops herself from doing that because the truth is, she’s not going to quit worrying.
“I wish I could be happy for you,” Susie says later, after they’ve finished their tea, along with the entire bag of cookies.
“Try to be,” March says, as she walks Susie to the door, then out to the porch.
March throws her arms around her old friend, and they stand there for a while, even though the weather has taken a turn and is much colder than had been predicted. All along the stone fences, the bittersweet berries have become orange. People will soon be covering their beds with their heaviest quilts, their warmest blankets. Cats won’t be forced out for the night, and those people in town who take their dogs for a late walk will see their breath
