This was the first time Joanna had brought anyone to her mother’s new house. Catherine welcomed them in unabashedly, yet another departure from how she used to let Charles reluctantly into their house in Lionville, making excuses for the ragged carpet in the den and the pineapple wallpaper in the kitchen. Just like Sylvie, Catherine had inherited this house scot-free from a relative, her great-aunt Marjorie. There was this house, and then there was Roderick. It was something Joanna always thought about whenever she visited.
Since moving in, Catherine had replaced Marjorie’s stuff with the things from her old house in Lionville, the leather furniture, the farmhouse chairs, and the media center that had been such a point of contention between her parents—because of the price, no doubt—when Joanna was a teenager. All of it looked so shabby in the small, square living room with its royal blue carpet and lace curtains. Joanna had never met Great-aunt Marjorie, but she was mystified about who she might have been by the items of hers that still lingered around the house: a one-thousand-piece Eiffel Tower puzzle stacked in the coat closet. A whole drawer full of Hallmark cards featuring a cranky old lady wearing cat-eye glasses and spouting curmudgeonly good tidings. An assortment of Garfield cartoon and joke books on the small, white bookshelf in the upstairs bathroom and stacks of records of pasty-faced crooners Joanna didn’t recognize in the moldy basement. And in a cabinet under a bathroom sink, a small, zippered case full of lubricants, edible body gel, even a pair of padded handcuffs. Catherine had been with Joanna when she’d found the case and had seemed just as shocked as Joanna was. They’d left the case under the sink where they’d found it, not sure what to do with it.
Scott had walked right into the house, as comfortable as he was at Roderick. He allowed Catherine to make him a drink. Although he widened his eyes at Catherine’s various medications that were lined up on the kitchen counter and piled in the cupboard above the sink, he didn’t say anything nasty. He didn’t seem appalled to be here, instead sinking onto the couch and accepting a beer. Joanna felt so ambivalent. By this point the high had worn off, and she wasn’t sure if bringing him had been a good idea. But then she thought of the phone call from Bronwyn, feeling justified all over again. Moments later her emotions finished their orbit, and she was back to feeling terrified. What the hell was she doing? What did she want to happen?
Scott returned to his bar stool. “The bartender says we’re sixth in line.”
“What did you pick?” Joanna asked.
“It’s a surprise.” He grinned.
“Great.” Catherine rubbed her palms together. She was wearing dark red lipstick, and her hair was its same ash blonde. She was fifty-five, but men often thought she was younger. It had been a theory about why she wasn’t 100 percent accepted in their old neighborhood: because all the husbands secretly wanted her and all the wives secretly resented her.
“So did Joanna tell you they’re doing a biopsy?” Catherine said to Scott. “My doctor found a lump, and at first I couldn’t feel it, but now I think I can.” She prodded at the skin right under her arm, not exactly on her boob but close. “The nurse I spoke to on the phone when setting up the appointment told me it was probably nothing and that I shouldn’t panic, but they have to say that, don’t they? I have this wonderful doctor, though, and when I pressed him, he admitted that based on my age, profile, and condition, it’s most likely cancer.”
“Cancer.” Scott whistled. “Damn.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Catherine said, and then gazed longingly at her boobs, as if they were already gone.
Joanna flexed and pointed her toes. A gray-haired old seabird across the bar lit a cigarette. Then Catherine leaned into Scott. “So Joanna told me about the trouble at school. With that boy.”
Joanna widened her eyes. “I didn’t tell her anything,” she pleaded to Scott. “Honestly.”
“Yes you did.” Catherine coolly sipped her drink. “You told me everything.”
The neon Budweiser sign across the bar blinked on and off. Joanna aggressively pulled off a chunk of her place mat. It felt satisfying, so she pulled off another. “I’m sorry.” She looked at Scott.
Scott shrugged. “It’s all right. Whatever.”
“So?” Catherine leaned on her elbows. “What were the boys doing to one another?”
“I think we should talk about something else,” Joanna said loudly.
Catherine’s mouth was a square. “Come on. Like no one has asked him this already?”