And you in mine? She couldn’t get the words out. Thank you, she said.
Rand appeared in the entryway to the adjacent dining room, balancing a cup of tea. We just can’t believe it, he said. Please know we are so very, very sorry. Heartbroken.
Strangled sobs emerged from Mrs. Allen senior. Malcolm flattened his lips. Amy reddened. Rand, she said huskily. Thank you for calling first. Letting us know before the police did. That’s a blessing.
Yes, he said. We were sure you’d want that. It was the least we could do.
Heat festered in Marilyn. We? Where she’d failed, Rand had made good and contacted the family—even before returning to the motel. Her shame deepened.
What will it be, Marilyn? Malcolm said evenly, as if she were on some inconsequential visit. Tea, he said. Apple juice. There might be wine. Milk? Water.
The football-playing meat of his high-school days had softened and thickened. She’d noted it maybe six years ago at Amy’s second wedding, but the effects were considerably pronounced now. Marilyn? he said.
Wine please, she responded—in fact she could feel it already, thick slugs of it down her throat.
He frowned, nodded. Wine, he repeated—and with a sigh made off, Katie and pie and Rand in tow.
Tittering erupted from one of Amy’s brood. She roughly patted the child from her ottoman throne until he rocked from her reach. Eyes sparkling, he clapped his hands over his mouth and jerked his shoulders side to side as if playing a game. Mummy, he piped through his tiny fingers. Mummy, what did the lady say?
Amy dragged him onto her lap and bounced her knees. Stop it this instant, she said in a low voice. Or Mummy will slap you.
His face froze. The other two children’s mouths kinked downward as if they might cry. Marilyn edged toward the vacant lounger and sat. The children, she recalled, were from different fathers. Amy’s third marriage had endured six months. Her first two husbands had been married to other women when Amy trampled onto their scenes. No love lost either between Amy and Jane. Newly full-hipped and rampantly bosomed, deliberative, Amy had once mermaided around the shallow end of Memorial public swimming pool one July afternoon, snapping the elastic on the bathing trunks of Jane’s first boyfriend. Within the hour Amy and beau were taking turns lapping from a can of grape soda and crudely necking on the walk home while Jane and Marilyn trailed behind.
Amy trained her scowl on Marilyn now. We’re not keeping you, I hope, Amy said.
No, of course not, Marilyn said.
Go now, Amy said, and shooed the kids toward the dining room, the better to fix her attention on Marilyn. You don’t still dive, do you? Amy said.
Packed it in last year.
So you were the smart one after all. Funny how that worked out.
Marilyn tensed, recalling Amy’s big-sister knees jabbed into the soft undersides of arms, fists to guts. Headaches that lasted days and stupendous bruises. Worse, there had been Marilyn’s mother’s bath-time prying. What the hell did you get into this time? she’d exclaim. What’s wrong with you?
Kidlife, Marilyn thought now. A miracle she and Jane had survived it.
Not smart, Marilyn gently remonstrated. More like not brave enough.
Amy puffed up on her seat. Brave? she rasped. Some brave.
Mr. Allen roused himself. Amy, he said, his thick glasses magnifying his watery eyes. Please, he said firmly.
More like pure selfishness, Amy continued anyway, voice rising. Trashed what God gave her. Threw her own life away for no reason. As if it was really hers to begin with.
Mrs. Allen’s weeping freshened and Mr. Allen put his arm around her. You may stop right there, he told Amy.
Why didn’t she stop? Amy said, then she pointed at Marilyn. Or why didn’t she stop her?
Mrs. Allen quieted herself now. I’m so sorry, she said to Marilyn in a dampened voice. You must excuse us.
I should give you some time alone, Marilyn said, standing, stupid with anguish. Excuse me. Please.
Bowls of grapes and pretzels bedecked the dining table. Where was her pie? It alarmed her how much her mouth watered. She turned to face the intense scrutiny of a row of five coin-eyed sprites perched on chairs pushed against the dining room wall, Malcolm’s kids having joined their cousins. None of them were eating. Her stomach rumbled again and she wondered if it would be rude of her to snack. Suddenly the largest child kicked his legs and caught Marilyn’s calf. Excuse me? she protested, straightening her spine in an attempt to loom large.
He shrank from her with a scared expression. Your wine? Malcolm said from behind her.
She wheeled as if caught. Then she took the glass from him and, trying not to notice the stern, quizzical look on his face, sipped her drink too quickly, coughed and nearly spilled it.
He drew back as if she were something he’d stubbed his toe on. Need anything else? he said and indicated her glass. More?