John-Tyler wasn’t at her side. Eleanor’s eyes went to the next wedge of the revolving door. A little boy in a navy blazer emerged, holding hands with his father, Bucky.
They stood there, facing Eleanor, the three of them.
“This was my choice,” Ivy said. “It has nothing to do with Bucky. The IVF and the pills were making me overly emotional. I needed help, I see that now. And I’m getting it.”
John-Tyler, in Gucci loafers you could fit in your palm, was his own little person. He held a plastic dinosaur and had Bucky’s chin. Eleanor wouldn’t have known Bucky had a chin until she saw it on Ivy’s son.
Without a word, Bucky handed Eleanor a list of conditions. She scanned it numbly. If she wanted to visit Ivy, she could come to New Orleans and stay in a hotel. She wouldn’t be allowed in the house. She was never to be left alone with John-Tyler.
Eleanor ransacked Ivy’s face for the slightest something: a held-back tear, a desperate flash in the eye saying I’ll call you later, a quivering lip. But nothing.
Bucky held out a Neiman Marcus shopping bag. “We won’t be needing this.”
In it a slab of leather. On its spine, THE FLOOD GIRLS. The shock of it, and of Ivy’s acquiescence, paralyzed Eleanor.
Bucky, without lowering his hand, let go of the bag. It dropped to the floor with an unremarkable thud.
“Let’s go find the departure level, shall we?” Bucky said, his arm now around Ivy’s waist. “Our plane leaves in an hour and I fear the powers that be will make us once again endure security.”
“Yes, my love.”
Bucky turned to Eleanor. “You blame me, of course. One day you will understand this is entirely your doing. You never gave me a chance. Yes, I do live a smallish life in New Orleans. And one might say I’m overinvested in Carnival. But I’m ferociously loyal to my family, you see. Any hardships I have with your sister are a function of me wanting the best for her and our son. I’m the first to admit that Ivy and I have had difficulties in our marriage. What couple hasn’t? But it’s basic emotional intelligence that when someone comes to you with their one-sided horror stories, you listen. You don’t plot their divorce. It’s true, Eleanor, you and I possess different styles. Last time I checked, the world allowed for such things. There’s a Buddhist proverb: ‘Just because a raft helps you cross the river, you need not carry that raft on your back for the rest of your life.’ In other words, Eleanor, you’re the raft, and Ivy has decided to put you down.”
And then it was three backs walking away.
It took several seconds for Eleanor to speak.
“Where are the derringers?” she found herself screaming as she charged them. “I want my guns! I want my guns back!”
Ten minutes later, Eleanor was in the back of a police car outside baggage claim. She explained to the young cop it had been a family argument and that the guns were darling antiques that didn’t fire, practically metaphors. Even if they did fire, they were mounted on a wall in another state.
“You’ve got to calm down, ma’am.” It was the cop, through a crack in the window. “I don’t want to take you downtown. But you really gotta chill here.”
Please God, don’t let all this toxic fear and rage hurt the baby. Please don’t let Joe get back from Kenya and find out I got arrested. I promise you, God, if you get me out of here with a healthy baby and without Joe knowing, Joe and the baby will be my family. I’ll never think about Bucky and Ivy again.
“Get it together, ma’am. Count to three and put it behind you. Ready?”
“One, two, three.”
Right after Timby was born, that’s when it was toughest not to have a sister. Breast-feeding. Sleep schedules. Eleanor had found a baby class whose instructor believed high chairs, slings, and tummy time were bad, even bordered on child abuse, and of course Eleanor wanted to compare notes with her sister, a mother before her. Everyday life was booby-trapped with reminders. (Blueberries: the time Eleanor and Ivy had made cold blueberry soup from The Silver Palate Cookbook at their walk-up on Bank Street and it stained the guests’ teeth purple.) But as soon as a memory of Ivy was triggered, Eleanor snapped a rubber band around her wrist. If she didn’t have a rubber band, she scolded herself out loud: “No!”