“Don’t be,” Jennifer says. “It’ll be okay.”
They walk out that way, the boys in front of Jennifer and Megan clinging to her hand behind. Past the delicate, spectacular formations and the signs that point out what they resemble: bacon, steak and potatoes, an angel’s wing. “Weird, ain’t it,” says a man in front of Jennifer. She wishes she could come down here alone, pause and gaze up, stare a long, long time. But they have to keep moving. Past the Dragon’s Foot, past the Mirror Pool. Behind her Megan lets out the long slow breaths of someone wrestling with panic. “This is our last stop before the elevator,” the guide says at last, and as he goes on talking Jennifer feels a sudden sharp pang, a longing to dash back inside, to hear again that rushing water in the dark, to gaze into the Mirror Pool. But she can’t do that, because Milo and Ben are in front of her, and Megan holds on to her hand.
From the elevator they’re led up steps to a tower, from which there is a strangely unpretty, if expansive, view. At the first opportunity Megan hugs her. “Thank you,” she says. And then for good measure Megan hugs both the boys. “Thank you,” she says to each of them, and they look at each other with puzzled smiles and ask for what, and she says for being so good.
After the tower is the gift shop, where a long-haired boy behind a counter pulls out a bright red Ruby Falls folder holding the photo taken at the beginning of the tour. There they are, Megan, Jennifer, Milo, Ben—an eight-by-ten on the right side of the folder, a sheet of wallets on the left. “Twenty dollars for the big one,” the boy says. “Thirty for all of it, plus you get this!” He holds up a small cheap frame that says RUBY FALLS.
Megan leans over the photos without touching them. “Cute,” she says. “Let us think about it.” She walks away, telling the kids to come on, and the boy shrugs, knowing that means no. He moves to put the folder on a stack of other abandoned ones.
“Wait,” Jennifer says. “I’ll take all of them, and the frame.” She catches up to Megan and the boys and says, “I couldn’t resist.”
Megan laughs. She puts her arm around Jennifer’s shoulders and squeezes, leans her head against Jennifer’s so their temples touch. “Sucker,” she says affectionately. “You have to give me one.”
They drive home with the sun low in the sky. The water in the lake is a dull silver now, but the clouds are gorgeous, voluminous, dark and white, lit from behind. Megan rides in the passenger seat with her head tilted back, gazing out the window. “Michelangelo clouds,” she says. “Beautiful.”
The List of Sins
I’ve had too much activity today, I think. I had one of my dizzy spells. It went on and on, even after I sat down. I gripped the seat of the chair like my father used to tell me to. You’re so clumsy you’ll fall off. Yes, Papa, you’re right. When you’re young you get sick and you know there’ll be an end to it, but when you’re old you know a time is coming when you won’t get better. I’ll get dizzy and I’ll get dizzy, and then I’ll fly off the merry-go-round. I’m getting metaphorical, Papa. I mean I’ll die.
Today is my father’s birthday. He lived to be eighty-seven, which seemed so old to me then, and yet is younger than I am now. I am older than he was when he died. I am so old.
What I wanted was for Jennifer to offer to drive me down the Mountain to Murfreesboro, to see his grave, but she didn’t. She wouldn’t. I couldn’t get her to. When she was here a few days ago, I mentioned the birthday, and my habit of visiting his grave on it. At the time I tried not to admit to myself why I was telling her this—though why? Why am I still trying to hide myself from myself? Clearly the old are not immune to self-delusion. I didn’t want to ask her directly, so instead I talked at length about my uncertainty that I should be trusted that long behind the wheel, hoping she would arrive at the idea on her own. Maybe she wasn’t really listening. At any rate she didn’t take the hint. So my plan was to ask her directly, after our morning appointment.
But first thing this morning, the phone rang, and when I answered, it was Jennifer. “I’m so sorry,” she said, “but I need to cancel today.”
“You can’t,” I said.
Silence.
“Our appointment’s in less than an hour,” I said. “I’ve been planning on it.”
“Something came up,” she said. “I’m sorry, Margaret.” She said it like she meant it, but so what if she’s sorry? What do I care if she’s sorry?
“What came up?” I asked.
“Milo’s school has a teacher in-service day,” she said. “This is all my fault, I’m sorry—I’d forgotten. I only just remembered.”