Angus stares at me.
“Oh. I didn’t tell you that part, did I?”
He feigns exasperation, shakes his head. Then he smiles. In the cold garden, it feels so good to be in his arms. I think of last night—of the things we did to each other, and I start to fantasize about pulling him into the shed and maybe …
“Mom?”
I whirl around. Clem is standing there, her cheeks swimming with tears.
“Clem.” I race to her. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at school?”
She takes a step back, looks at Angus.
“You saw,” I say.
She nods.
“Clem,” I say. “I … I can explain.”
A tear wells and falls onto her cheek, and then another one. “It’s okay.”
“Honey, I’m so sorry.”
I half expect her to walk away or yell or stare at me in disgust. But her utter lack of expression is more unsettling than any of it.
“Can we just go inside, Mom?” She shivers inside her coat. “I’m cold.”
“Yes, of course. Let’s go inside. We can talk there.”
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“I don’t want to talk about”—Her gaze flickers to Angus— “that. Is that okay?”
“Of course,” I say, surprised. “That’s okay.”
I put my arm around Clem and glance at Angus. He nods soberly. It might be the last time we share a look, I realize. It might be the last time we share anything.
*
Clem sits in the kitchen on a stool while I call her school. They are very apologetic, clearly concerned I’ll be litigious, but they don’t need to worry. Especially since if anyone has anything to feel guilty about, it’s me.
“So,” I say to her after I hang up. “What happened at school?”
Clem looks at her lap. “Miranda was saying stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“She said that I attack people, and if I attack her again, her mom will get me kicked out of the school.”
I think of Ms. Donnelly’s messages that I still haven’t returned. And it occurs to me that I might very well get Clem kicked out of school myself.
“Well, you aren’t going to attack her again, are you?” I say.
“No.”
“Well, then, you don’t have to worry. And I’ll speak to Miss Weber, okay?”
Clem doesn’t say anything.
“Okay, hon?”
“Okay.”
I start to get suspicious. Had she already done something? But before I can ask her, Eric walks past the kitchen, jolting me out of our little world. I glance at the clock. “Shoot! Clem, I have to do some cleaning. Would you like to help?”
She shakes her head.
“Do you want to go to the parlor and watch TV?”
“Can I just stay here, Mom?”
She looks so tiny up on her stool, legs dangling, and I have a sudden pang of yearning for Richard. Before he died, if Clem was having a problem, I’d call him.
“Put her on the phone,” he’d have said, and then would have had her giggling within seconds. For all his foibles, he was a good father.
But Richard isn’t here so instead, I grab the cookie jar from a shelf. “Course you can. Here. Eat as many as you like.”
She looks at the jar and finally smiles.
“I won’t be long,” I say.
I get my cart and drive it past the parlor. Bert is reading the newspaper aloud. Anna and Luke gaze out of different windows. Laurie and Clara sit side by side, in separate chairs. It’s funny, usually Clara and Laurie sit in the love seat with an arm linked, or hands intertwined—some sort of physical contact. The fact that they aren’t touching now makes me look twice. On the second look, I realize what’s amiss.
It’s not Clara.
Suddenly I remember how my conversation with Clara ended last time. “Sometimes sisters can be treacherous.”
I head straight to Clara and Laurie’s room, give her door a gentle knock. “It’s only me,” I call. “Can I make up your room?”
“Thanks, honey,” she says. “Come on in.” Clara’s voice sounds weak and quiet. I find her reclined in bed, in the dark.
“Would you like me to open the curtains?” I ask, and she nods. I set down my bucket and pull back the curtains, securing them with ties. “Is that your sister in the parlor?” I ask.
“Yes. That’s Enid.”
“I thought she visited only once a year.” I realize, a moment too late, that I’d learned this particular piece of information while eavesdropping on Clara and Laurie a few months ago in the parlor. But Clara doesn’t seem to notice.
“She does. But I asked her to come again.” Clara sighs. “You may as well know. I’m dying.”
I pause, half-bent to dip my cloth into the bucket.
“I’ve been giving myself breast examinations every month for forty years. Mama had the cancer, too, you see. She wasn’t interested in going to see a doctor.” Clara chuckles blackly. “Mama died, of course. And I always said if I found a lump, I’d cut it out faster than you could say ‘cancer.’ But when I went to the doctor, he said it was too late. Ironic, huh?”
“I … I’m so sorry.”
Clara pffts. “Sorry isn’t worth the paper it’s written on. What matters is action. Righting the wrongs. You know what I mean?”