“Now, Bob,” Tony began.
“Mr. Healy,” Dominic said, “he’s my social studies teacher. He says the Cold War is over. He made us memorize the new Russian states. And gave us a pop quiz! Even though they’re spelled all crazy.”
“What?” Bob snapped. Veronica hoped to God he hadn’t heard.
“But I was like,” Dom continued, “dude, haven’t you seen The Experts with John Travolta? And what about Red Dawn? The Russians are still the bad guys.”
“I can’t hear you, boy. Speak up!”
Maddie shouted, “The Russians are the bad guys! You are totally right, Grandpa. The Cold War is not over!”
“The Cold War was never a war,” Bob said. “The young people, they don’t know what war is.” He laughed. “They think it’s a card game!”
He fell back into his chair. “You’re a good boy, Dominic.”
Bob’s attention made the boy’s face go dreamy. Veronica had seen that look many times over the past fifty years—on the faces of seamen, even an admiral or two, and there were the boys who had begged Bob to autograph posters at countless air shows. He may have never seen battle, but he was king of the Ironworks. She had known, when she accepted his marriage proposal, she’d be second to his men, his fans, his buddies. She hadn’t minded the solitude and wished those buddies, most dead or dying, were there to help her with their Colonel now.
“Ginny, sweetheart,” he said tenderly, and Veronica let herself believe there was love there. “I can’t be the only one who thinks you’re fat.” He looked at Maddie, then Dominic. “Children, be honest now. It’s for your mother’s own good.”
“That is enough!” Veronica slammed her fist on the table so her old china rattled. “You shut your mouth. This instant.”
Bob ducked his head like a disobedient child.
“Now, be a dear, and wipe that snot from your nose before it lands in your lap. Or, worse, in Tony’s precious pasta.”
It was hard to quit now that she had their attention.
“And we do not,” she added, “slurp from our spoons like barbarians. Only put on your spoon what you can eat in one bite. Isn’t that right, children?”
Maddie and Dom nodded.
The look on their faces—mouths open, eyes on Bob—was heaven. They waited for the Colonel to explode. Whaddya want, a slap upside your head, Veronica? She wished she could tell them—the Colonel has vanished. Left in his place, a man living on his own private island. She wished she could tell them—I’m preparing to vanish too—but knew they’d never understand. She herself wouldn’t have, not before she became a dying woman and saw what fools they all were, her included, living as if each day wasn’t a step closer to death.
A bubble bath had seemed like a nice way to die. But then she’d considered the humiliation of being found in the nude, the contents of her bowels floating in the lilac-scented bathwater. She’d been a nurse when she met Bob and knew what happened after death. The revolver was out of the question. Too much mess. She wouldn’t put that burden on dear Rosalita, who’d only ever been loyal and kind. Hanging was absurd. This wasn’t a nineteenth-century novel and she wasn’t an inmate in a prison cell with only a pair of shoelaces to off herself, and how would she manage the rigging of a noose when she could barely pull herself up the stairs some days? The only option was pills, as many as she could find. Then a plastic shopping bag to put over her head, twine to tie it tight. She’d already decided on the translucent plastic pink sacks from the gourmet grocery in town where Rosalita bought fresh farm peaches, sweet corn, strawberry-rhubarb pie, and cardboard containers of raspberries. That would be nice—inhaling the earthy tang of fresh-picked fruit with her last breath. Her last glimpse of the world rose-colored.
She unclasped her cigarette case, a gaudy thing studded with gold beads, a Christmas present from Ginny. She shook out a Kent King 100. The lighter’s hammer struck flint and the flame rose, catching the paper with a hiss. The first pull of hot smoke was divine. She released a cloud into the air above the table.
“Mommy.” Ginny’s eyes flitted to her father. “You know we don’t smoke in the house.”
“Ginny, dear, we don’t. But I do. What was it you young’uns used to say back in the day?”
She exhaled quivering smoky O’s over the table.
“Oh yes,” she said: “The times they are a-changing.”
“Cool,” Dominic whispered.
“Well, thank you, Dominic. But let us never forget what a horribly distasteful habit it is. Yes?” She took a last drag and ground the cigarette into her bread-and-butter plate. “We must go. Bob, chop-chop! So much to do at the big house. Rosalita is coming first thing in the morning to clean.”
Her daughter’s family stood at the front door as they left. Ginny surprised Veronica, crushing her in a hug so sudden she let loose an “Oh!”
“Mommy, I missed you.”
Veronica felt a sob rattle in her throat. Dear God, was she turning into one of those feelings people?
“You know how bad I am with hugs and all that. Me,” she smiled, “your coldhearted mother.”
“Can I stop by tomorrow? There’s something I wanted to talk to you about. Just us two.”
You mean, Veronica thought, something you want me to buy.
“We’re so busy, dear. And exhausted! I’ll need a week to acclimate. You understand.”
“Of course.” Ginny’s fingers went to her mouth. Her daughter’s cuticles were ragged, the nails chewed. “I was just thinking…” She paused. “A cruise would be a wonderful experience for the whole family. Don’t you think?”
“Don’t bite your nails, dear…”
“I know,” Ginny said, her voice far away as she stared sleepy-eyed at the forest. “No boy wants to hold a girl’s hands if her nails are all chewed.”
Veronica knew she’d been a poor mother but the reminder made the scars on her chest throb.
“Oh, sweetie,” Veronica began, then saw how it only relit that hopeful hunger in Ginny.
“Please? Just a quick visit?”
Veronica was sure her daughter’s list was as long as her childhood Christmas letters to Santa—vacations to the Caribbean and tea at the Plaza in the city, a new Bloomies card to replace her delinquent account. Maybe even a new car.
“We’ll see,” Veronica whispered.