Four species of parasitic flies prey on gypsy moth larva. Parasetigana silvestris and Exorista larvarum lay an egg on the gypsy moth larva. If that egg hatches before the gypsy moth larva molts, the fly larva will penetrate the host. Compsilura concinnata pierces the gypsy moth larva and deposits its own larva inside. Blepharipa pratensis lays its eggs on leaves—the gypsy moth larva will consume the egg and the fly larva will hatch inside its gut.
—The Gypsy Moth: Research Toward Integrated Pest Management, United States Department of Agriculture, 1981
14.
Veronica
The girl arrived for tea in what, Veronica imagined, passed for dressed up these days. A pink-and-yellow floral pleated skirt, a white T-shirt, and a yellow cardigan. A suitable outfit even if so much of her granddaughter’s smooth, sun-bronzed flesh was exposed. But those shoes. Veronica could hardly contain the cringe that rose inside her. They were something a gladiator would wear—sandals with wedge heels and canvas straps that wound up the girl’s legs. Like the serpent in the Garden of Eden.
“Those shoes,” she said when Maddie wobbled into the sunroom. “They’re so…”
“Amazing, right? My friend Bitsy wears them and I convinced Mom to get me a pair for my birthday.”
Bitsy Smith, Veronica guessed. If she was anything like her gin-guzzling mother and womanizing father, oh Lord.
“Your sixteenth birthday?”
“Uh-huh. I mean, yes.”
Sweet sixteen, Veronica thought. The bridge between girl and woman. Heaven help her.
“Sit, dear!” She patted the cushion of the high-backed wicker chair next to her own. She’d had Rosalita rearrange the potted palms and ficus so the sunroom felt like a greenhouse. “I’ve planned a feast for us.”
She had spent two days preparing for tea with her granddaughter—her need to make everything just right surprising her. She’d never been a Suzy Homemaker.
“Take a sandwich, please.”
Tea sandwiches—cucumber and mayo, curried chicken, and egg salad with almond slivers—were stacked on a three-tier glass platter. She’d insisted the crusts be cut to make them extradainty—a request that had Rosalita rolling her eyes like a teenager.
Veronica had come close to confiding in Rosalita how essential this seemingly frivolous tea party was—the first step in enlisting Maddie to spy on Leslie Marshall. Whether the girl would be aware of her role was a detail Veronica anticipated knowing by the time the first cup of tea had cooled. She had watched the adoring glances Maddie and the Marshall boy had shared a few nights back, right out front on White Eagle’s lawn, seen the hunger trembling between them, sure it would pull them together. As she’d spied from behind the living room’s peach curtains, she’d understood what had to be done.
“I’m sorry if this visit feels required,” Veronica said, waving dismissively at the table perfectly set. The pastel petit fours from Reinwald’s Bakery; the sticks of rock candy to swirl in their tea; and chocolate-covered marshmallows, strawberries, and sliced banana from Bon Bon’s Chocolatier.
“I’m sorry. I don’t get what you’re saying,” Maddie said with a sweet shake of her head.
“Having tea with your lonely grandmother, of course.” She wobbled her head a bit, mocking herself.
“I wanted to come see you,” Maddie said. “You’ve always been so busy. You and…”
“The Colonel.” She finished for her granddaughter. “Is it funny to call him that? You can call him what you like. Grandfather? His mother called him Bobby. I insist you call me Veronica. To help us become fast friends.”
“If you’re sure,” Maddie said. “I mean, about calling you Veronica. I’m absolutely sure I want to be friends.”
Veronica remembered her own fear at that age of misinterpreting, saying the wrong thing, failing at being perfect. She sensed a note of need in the girl’s voice.
Maddie lifted her chin, closed her eyes, and recited, “Surround yourself only with people who are going to lift you higher.”
It was the kind of aspirational language Veronica had heard growing up among the Latter-Day Saints. She remembered her devout stepmother Virgie’s advice: Surround yourself with people who are a reflection of your best self.
“Is that something you heard in church?”
“No.” Maddie paused. “Unless you count the church of Oprah.”
The girl’s straight-faced delivery reminded Veronica of her sister Bess, whom she hadn’t seen since she’d left Palmyra a few months before her wedding to Bob. Shunned by the temple and her family.
Veronica let loose a “Ha!” and it felt good to laugh loudly, and a bit vulgar. The opposite of the hand-over-mouth tittering the women at the club did over lobster bisque and stiff whiskey sours. As if, she thought, the very idea of laughing was unladylike. She liked to laugh and she liked this girl’s wit that seemed to pirouette so she could hardly keep up.
“I watch Oprah every day after school,” Maddie said. “She’s kind of life-changing.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“You’ve never seen it?”
“It’s on my list,” Veronica said.
“You’re really missing out.”
“I promise you,” Veronica said, her hand pressed against her scarred chest, “on my mother’s grave” (not that she knew where it was) “I will watch.”
“Maybe”—Maddie clapped her child-sized hands—“we could watch it together.”
“I’d love that.” She was surprised at how true this was. She’d been prepared to lie throughout tea. Or, at least, perform. But she wanted to spend more time with the girl. Even if watching a show that sounded like a religious cult.
“I can come over tomorrow. It’s on at four every afternoon.”
So soon? Veronica had much to do. Meetings with the Grudder board to discuss the EPA complaint threatening to shut down Plant 2. She knew that troublemaker Marshall girl was responsible. She had her possessions to give away—so she could leave this world unencumbered. She wouldn’t allow Ginny and Tony to organize some gauche tag sale after her death, where strangers (or, worse, nosy islanders she’d detested in real life like Binnie Mueller and Jessamyn Clancy) fingered her crystal and silver and Bob’s mother’s collection of Limoges china. Priced at a fraction of their worth. The thought of her life tagged at a discount almost—almost—made her second-guess her exit plan. She’d begun the arduous task of separating what to donate to Goodwill, the Salvation Army, and St. Vincent de Paul; and what to pass on. But to whom? Ginny, who slept like a cursed princess in her dark cave of a bedroom? Maddie, who was just a girl? She thought of her and Bob’s lost heirs, the babies she’d miscarried. Three in the first trimester and one stillborn (her last pregnancy—she’d seen to that by having her tubes tied). A boy whose blue face had detonated Bob’s spirit. Shortly after, his affairs with the various Grudder secretaries had begun.
Her granddaughter was jittery with excitement. “Yes? Tomorrow?”
How could Veronica say no?