Megan smiles fondly at them, while over her shoulder Jennifer spots a young couple frowning in that can’t-those-women-control-their-children way. “I think we have time,” Megan says happily, willingly accepting the fiction that Jennifer wasn’t being a bitch. Wasn’t saying she wanted this outing over. Wasn’t saying, Do you think we’ve done enough? Do you think your asshole husband is satisfied now?
Megan gets up, herding the boys to the bathroom to wash their hands, and when Jennifer starts to rise and Megan shakes her head and says, “I’ve got it,” offering her a please-like-me smile, all Jennifer can think about is Megan’s sweetness, Megan’s desire to please, Megan’s fervent wish to get along, and what a shame it is to waste all that on her. But Jennifer needs to be the kind of person who makes friends, doesn’t she? For Milo’s sake. Because otherwise she’s not far removed from the prickly isolation of Margaret. Look at how she just snapped at Megan. Without Milo, she’d be a younger version, rude and suspicious, alone.
Margaret obviously wanted to show her that scrapbook—but then the agitated urgency with which she slammed it shut! Like the rest of that book was a locked room in a fairy tale, a box that should never be opened. Whatever you do, don’t go in there. Jennifer has been so focused on her own secrets for so long that she’d nearly forgotten other people have them, too. It’s been quite some time since she allowed herself curiosity. If curiosity is back, what else might return?
Megan emerges from the bathroom, guiding the boys toward the table, and when she sees Jennifer watching she flashes her a terrifyingly genuine smile. Jennifer smiles back. The expression can precede the emotion and still get you to the same result. Smiling can conjure happiness. Studies have shown.
Lucky You
Jennifer came prepared for our interview today with a tape recorder and a notebook to boot. When I emerged after the massage, I found her waiting in a chair she’d pulled close to my armchair, the tape recorder on the side table. She’d moved another small table close, too, and laid the scrapbook on it. She sprang up when she saw me and put her notebook and pen down in her chair. “Could you get me some water?” I asked, and she went to obey. I stood with my hand on the back of her chair, looking down at her notebook. There were already words in it. I couldn’t make out what they said, but I assumed they were questions. I felt a little wobbly. I thought perhaps I should have had the massage after the interview, so as not to be softened up. Because I have no intention of unburdening. I’m not going to tell her the story. Of course I’m not.
She came back from the kitchen and moved past her chair to set the water glass on my table. Then she rounded her chair again, coming toward me with hand extended. “What are you doing?” I said.
“I thought you might need help sitting down.”
“Oh. Yes. Thank you.” She took my arm and we shuffled around to my chair and then she helped ease me into it. “Sometimes it’s odd having you here,” I said. “I’m not used to this. Other people. Human contact.”
“I think we both like being alone.” She was turned away from me, picking up her notebook. I couldn’t quite see her face. I couldn’t quite make out her tone.
“Is that a good trait? Or a bad one?”
“I don’t know.” She sat. “What do you think?”
“I’ve spent most of my life alone,” I said.
“But you like that.”
“Yes.”
“So lucky you,” she said. “Maybe you should be glad.”
She’d surprised me again. Sue at the library would have said, But you’re not alone, Miss Margaret. You have me, with a face that exuded pity, and a desire to pat my hand. How many people would say I should be glad? Jennifer is a cave with a rock that blocks the entrance. What are the words that mean “open sesame”? I’ve never had a gift for them, the right words. This is perhaps obvious by now. What comes out of my mouth is too direct, too undisguised, and then the other person is startled, and I’m annoyed, or shamed, and after that the best thing is silence. For a long time I chose silence. I chose my solitude, even if now I grow restless in its echo chamber. I chose it. I would not call it luck.
She reached over and pressed the button on the tape recorder. She flipped to a fresh page and readied her pen.
I asked, “Are you divorced?”
“What?” She looked up quickly.
“You said I was lucky to be alone,” I said. “I thought perhaps you were thinking of an ex-husband.”
“Oh,” she said. “I was.”
“You’ve never mentioned a husband.”
“No.” And then she said, “Neither have you.”
“Me?” I laughed in a startled way. “I never had a husband to mention.”
“No?”
“I had romances.” For some reason it seemed important that she know this. “I wanted to get married. I wanted children. It just never happened.”
“In the war?”
“What?”
“You had romances in the war?” She wrote something down. What could she possibly have written down?
“In the war, before the war, after the war.” I wanted to laugh again, like a belle of the ball, but I couldn’t quite manage it. “There was a boy named Lloyd, for instance. Lloyd Kerr.”