The Invasion of the Tearling

But that was no longer possible, if it ever had been. She had told Greg so, in tiny ways, for years. It was nothing he was able to hear. And if the other night had proven anything, it was that what Lily wanted wasn’t worth a damn. She would have to find a way around the in vitro doctor, just as she had always circumvented the surveillance system in her house. But at the moment she could think of nothing. All of the years of her marriage, years she had spent scrambling, trying to escape this noose … and now it seemed to be drawing tight around her neck. Lily estimated that she had less than half an inch of space left.

In the restaurant, the ma?tre d’ led them toward their table, where Lily saw several of their friends, the Palmers and Keith Thompson, already seated. Lily didn’t enjoy the circle jerk that was lunch with Greg’s golf buddies and their wives, but their presence suddenly seemed like a godsend, infinitely better than sitting across from Greg alone. And Keith wasn’t too bad, definitely her favorite of Greg’s friends. He never leered or groped or shot veiled barbs about Lily’s failure to get pregnant. He was a hurried little man who’d risen to become president of his family’s grocery chain; his father was the chairman. At one of their dinner parties, Keith had wandered, extremely drunk, into the kitchen where Lily was organizing dessert, and they’d had a long talk, during which he confessed to Lily that he was simply waiting for his father to die. But he was only drinking water today, and his brittle smile telegraphed his displeasure at his lunch companions.

“Mayhew!”

Mark Palmer stood up and Lily saw that he was already drunk; his cheeks were rosy and he had to grab the edge of the table for balance. Michele, beside him, had her own buzz going; her eyes were dull and she merely nodded as Lily greeted her and took a chair. When Dow and Pfizer had merged, the resulting company had kept Mark and fired Michele, but Michele still had friends somewhere in the production line. She sold under-the-counter painkillers to half of New Canaan, and made a good profit. Lily’s body still ached whenever she sat down, and for a moment she considered doing a little business with Michele today, but then discarded the idea. She was hiding a terrorist in her nursery, and Greg wanted to haul her off to a back-alley doctor. Painkillers would make Lily as dull as Michele, who was her own best customer, and Lily couldn’t afford that. But they would still need to go off to the bathroom at some point, so that Lily could return Michele’s books and ask for more.

Greg ordered whisky, shooting another resentful look at Lily as the waiter walked away. She had driven him to drink, that look said. There was no introspection in Greg’s gaze; the word rape seemed to have rolled off him like water. Lily suddenly remembered a day several years ago, a weekend in college when they had driven up the coastline, not going anywhere in particular, simply cruising, Lily with her right foot stuck out the passenger-side window and Greg with his left hand on her thigh. What had happened to those two kids? Where had they gone?

Lunch was served, but Sarah and Ford did not appear, which was odd. They always lunched at the club on Sundays. Lily hadn’t seen them in church either.

“Where’s Sarah?” she finally asked Michele.

The table went quiet, and Lily realized that everyone knew something she didn’t. Michele gave her a discouraging shake of the head, and Mark quickly began to tell a story about some mix-up at work. A few minutes later Michele jerked her chin toward the lobby, and Lily stood up.

“Where are you going?”

Greg had grabbed her wrist and was looking up at her with narrowed, suspicious eyes. Lily suddenly realized that she hated her husband, hated him more than she had ever hated anyone or anything in her entire life.

“To the bathroom. With Michele.”

Greg let go, giving her arm a small jerk as he did so, and Lily stumbled away from the table. Keith Thompson stared after her with concerned eyes, and Lily wished she could tell him that it was all right, but that seemed extremely optimistic.

In the bathroom, Lily asked again, “What happened to Sarah?”

Michele paused in the act of fixing her eyeliner. “It happened three days ago. How do you not know?”

A fair question. There were no secrets in New Canaan; Lily usually knew the scandals of her neighbors before they even knew themselves. “I’ve been busy.”

“With what?”

“Nothing special. What happened?”

“Sarah’s in custody.”

“What for?”

“She tried to take out her tag.”

Lily said nothing for a moment, trying to connect this information with Sarah, who had once told Lily that her husband only used his fists because he cared so much. Of all of Lily’s friends, Sarah seemed the least likely to try something so drastic. “What happened?”

“Don’t know.” Michele began to fix her lipliner. “She went at her own shoulder with a knife. Missed the tag, but she nearly bled to death. Ford turned her in.”

Now that was in character. Once, on a family vacation, Ford had left Sarah at a rest stop on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. If Sarah hadn’t called him a few minutes later, he might have been all the way to Harrisburg before he noticed she was gone.