“I don’t think so, Dad,” she said to her father. “This might not be a good time.”
Tonight, Gwen goes to her room at ten-thirty, to bed she says, but really to phone her father, and after that, to call Hank. She leaves Susie waiting in the kitchen, and she can’t help but feel a tinge of satisfaction when she thinks how surprised her mother will be to find good old Susie parked in their house. It’s nearly midnight by the time March does get home. There’s a full moon out, and frost on all the fields. March lets herself in the door quietly, but the damned dog barks to greet her.
“Be quiet,” March tells Sister.
March’s face is flushed from the cold. They’ve stopped checking into that awful motel, and have begun to go to that funny little room off the kitchen March never even knew existed when she used to visit the Coopers. The room must have been meant for a maid or a cook; maybe it was Antsy—the cook responsible for all those delicious meals—who lived there. It’s a dingy, chilly place, but that doesn’t stop them any more than the knowledge that Hank is upstairs finishing his homework.
It has come to this: They don’t give a damn about anyone but themselves. It’s true, so March will just have to admit it. It’s always been this way when they’re together, and it’s happening all over again. Why, at this point March isn’t even certain she exists without Hollis. When she leaves their bed, in an attempt to get home and pretend to her daughter that their lives are still normal, that’s the time when she feels as if she’s entered into a dream. Everything seems gray and she’s unsteady on her own, as if a strong wind could tip her over. If she stopped to think about what she was doing, she wouldn’t believe it. Less than an hour ago, while Hank was studying for a math exam, and her daughter was left alone with a lie, March was down on her knees in that small room off the kitchen, not caring about anything but pleasing Hollis. The floor is old pine, and rotting, and now March feels tiny splinters in her palms and her knees. Hollis is a different kind of lover than he used to be. He was always sure of himself, but now he wants to be completely in control, and March doesn’t fight that. In a way, it’s a relief. March doesn’t have to think when she’s with him, or make a decision, or state a preference. She can tell, from the way he touches her, that he’s been with a lot of women, too many, but she’s the one he wants, and she always has been, and that alone makes her forget all reason.
“Stop it,” March whispers to the dog when it jumps up to greet her.
“Sneaking in?”
Susanna Justice has been standing in the hallway, watching as March gingerly removes her boots.
“Good Lord,” March says, clutching at her chest. She’s wearing jeans and a pale blue sweater Judith Dale sent as a birthday gift years ago. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”
“Here’s the thing I’m upset about. Why is it that everyone in town knew about it before I did?”
“Knew what? That I was having a heart attack?” March takes her coat off and hangs it in the closet. By now, every word she says feels like a lie.
“That’s not what you’re having,” Susie says.
So, March sees that Susie still has the annoying habit of judging others.
“Whatever I’m doing is my business.”
“Don’t you realize everyone is talking about you? Your love life is the main topic of conversation in town.”
“And have you been defending me?” March says, with a bitter edge.
“I defended you to your daughter. Sort of.”
“Oh, shit.” March’s cheeks are now flushed bright pink. “I told her I was out with you.”
“Do you think she’s an idiot?”
“Do you think I am?” March says.
“Actually, yes.”
They both grin at that notion.
“I think you’re insane,” Susie hastens to add.
March’s grin widens, the big smile of someone who no longer cares about sanity.
“I’m serious,” Susie says.
“Overly so,” March agrees.
March insists on making some tea; once they’re in the kitchen, she fills the kettle, sets it on the stove, then grabs a bag of chocolate chip cookies and brings them to the table.
“You don’t know the things people say about Hollis, March.”
“Please.” March bites off half a cookie. “They’ve always disliked him.”
“I’m not talking about silly remarks about how he made his money.” It’s all so unsubstantiated Susie knows she shouldn’t say more. As a reporter she should kick herself for passing on unfounded suspicions, but this is her oldest friend. In good conscience, she can’t keep her mouth shut. “My mother thinks he may have had something to do with Belinda’s death.”