“I think it’s better for everyone if you don’t. Thanks for asking.”
The detective has no choice but to let Marion go on her way, and so he informs the TSA agent standing outside the door that Mrs. Palm is free to leave. He briefly considers doing Nathan Palm a favor and reminding Marion Palm of her daughters, thirteen and eight. But he doesn’t feel like doing anything more for Nathan Palm.
Marion pauses before she leaves and turns to the detective. “It’s a good thing I came early. I had a feeling this might happen. But it’s nice to see you again.”
“Yes. Safe flight,” the detective says.
She smiles, and she’s led back to airport security by the agent. It has occurred to Marion that she could be going to Moscow to be killed. She will be easier to murder in Moscow than in New York, and that’s perhaps worth the price of her plane ticket. But why worry, she thinks, and besides, no decision is irreversible. At the gate, her plane is boarding. Marion hands her boarding pass over to be scanned, waits in another line, is corralled and belted into her seat, she’s taxied, and then she is officially not on the ground anymore. She’s herself and she’s flying.
The detective sits where Marion Palm sat. He takes his phone out of his pocket and calls Nathan, who answers on the second ring. “Hello,” Nathan says in weary voice. He wants to watch television, update his blog, and drink a glass of wine. He will even allow himself takeout. A day away from his house, though not frightening, was exhausting.
The detective clears his throat. “I wanted to let you know that we have located your wife and she’s safe.”
Nathan says, “What? Where is she? Put her on the phone.”
“Well, she asked me not to tell you. And she’s not here anymore.”
“But you know? You know where Marion is? Tell me, I need to know. You have to tell me.”
“No, I don’t,” the detective says.
Nathan keeps talking even though it’s clear that the detective is no longer on the other end. He wishes he were afraid. He wishes Marion were dead. He turns, and his daughters stand there, looking.
The Palm Women
In the years to come, the Palm girls will tell the story of their mother often. They will tell it to friends, lovers, therapists, police officers, loan officers, deans of admissions, and salesmen. They will tell it to coworkers at happy hour. They will tell it after sex. They will tell it before sex. There will be a long version and a short version. There will be a funny version. Sometimes Jane Palm calls her father and wants to tell him the story, but she falters. Ginny Palm is the only one who can mention her mother to her father, because she can tolerate Nathan’s long silences.
Sometimes the girls tell each other the story. They don’t live in the same state, but they call. They talk around Marion Palm for a while but inevitably fall into the same conversation. Remember the diner? Of course I remember. And they begin to remember their mother. Sometimes they sympathize. Most times they don’t. They try to understand why their mother married their father. They wonder why she had children. They don’t wonder why she took the money. They do wonder how. The conversation ends when one Palm girl asks, Where do you think she is now? What do you think she’s doing? The other Palm girl says, Probably embezzling. Probably stealing. Maybe in prison. Probably not.
And each girl silently recognizes within herself the part that belongs to Marion Palm. The Palm girls are unremarkable-looking women. They gain access. They earn trust. They wait for the perfect opportunity, believing that this part, this dark impulse, is common only to themselves and other criminals. They never tell, but the Palm girls think of their mother.
Acknowledgments
There are many people I need to thank. This book wouldn’t have been finished without them.
My incredible agent, Claudia Ballard.
My wonderful editor, Jennifer Jackson.
My deep gratitude to the University of Denver and to Selah Saterstrom, Laird Hunt, and Brian Kiteley.
Many thanks to Marina Romashko for her help with translation.
My dear, thoughtful friends, many of whom were kind early readers: Mona Awad. Mairead Case. Teresa Carmody. Caroline Cabrera. Rebecca Beck. Emily Lamia. Melanie Closs. Emily Klasson. Susan Heyward. Mariel Delghavi. Jessica Carbone. Karen Chau. Johannes and Nicole Van Der Tuin. Gary Tomlin. Lynda Myles. Patty Shay.
My family. I am fortunate to have been born into a family of talented writers. Thank you to my sister, Kathleen, for being one of my first readers and for answering my many questions about city-beat reporting. Thank you to my parents, Carolyn and Richard Culliton, for their generosity, support, and encouragement.
Thank you.
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
EMILY CULLITON is a PhD candidate in fiction at the University of Denver and earned her MFA from the University of Massachusetts Amherst. She was born and raised in Brooklyn.