I nodded. I was rolling silverware: knife, then fork, on a napkin, then the napkin pulled taut at a right angle and three tight rolls. Morgan watched me out of the corner of her eye, checking my technique, as she talked.
“I can still remember the first time I saw her. Me and Isabel were in high school, about your age, I guess. We were checkout girls at the Big Shop, and Mira came up one day on her bike, wearing some bright orange parka. She bought about six boxes of cereal. That’s all she ever seemed to buy. I kept waiting for her to go into sugar shock, right there at my register.”
I kept rolling, afraid she’d stop if I said anything.
“Anyway,” she said, straightening the stack of filters, which was just slightly crooked, “after a while, she started to get involved in the community. I remember my mom took this painting class Mira taught over at the Community Center. It had been taught before by this old lady who had a rule that everyone could only paint flowers and animals. And then here comes Mira, talking about the human form, and perspective, and encouraging everyone to just throw the paint around and whatnot.”
I smiled; that sounded like Mira.
“But the worst part was she talked the mailman, Mr. Rooter—who was about seventy, even then—into modeling for the class.”
I looked up at this.
“Nude modeling,” she added, doing another filter. “Apparently, it was quite horrifying. I mean, my mother never really recovered. She said she could never look at the mail the same way again.”
“Wow,” I said.
“I know,” Morgan replied. “Mira never understood what all the fuss was about. But from then on, everyone already had their ideas about her. You’re not rolling those tight enough.”
“What?” I said, startled.
“You need to pull that napkin tighter,” she said, pointing. “See how they’re kind of loose and floppy?”
“Oh,” I said. “Sorry.”
She watched me, eyes narrowed, until I shaped up. “But Mira didn’t even seem to notice that everyone was up in arms until they asked her to leave. And poor Mr. Rooter. I don’t think anyone made eye contact with him for at least a year. The next week that class was back to flowers and puppies again. My mom painted this awful lopsided basset hound that she hung in the bathroom. It was really scary.”
I wasn’t quite sure what to say to that.
“So that was kind of how it started,” she went on. “But there were other things, too. Like when some parents wanted to ban some books from the middle school. Mira freaked out about that, started showing up at school board meetings and making a real commotion. It just made people nervous, I guess.”
“That’s a shame, though,” I said.
“Yeah, it is.” She picked up one of my sloppy rolls and redid it, pulling the napkin tight. “But that’s when they started getting kind of nasty toward her. Like I said, this is a small town. It doesn’t take much to get a reputation.”
“Those women I heard today in the post office,” I said, softly, “one of them had this—”
“The baby,” she finished for me, and I nodded. “That’s Bea Williamson. The Williamsons are old Colby: country club, town government, big mansion overlooking the sound. She’s got some kind of issue with Mira. I don’t know what it is.”
I wanted to tell her that sometimes there doesn’t even have to be a reason. I knew from experience that no matter how much you turn things in your head, trying to make sense of them, some people just defy all logic.
“They were saying all these terrible things,” I said, finishing another silverware. “You know, about the way she is.”
“The way she is,” Morgan repeated flatly.
“Yeah, well,” I went on, not looking at her. I suddenly felt terrible for even bringing it up, as if I was Bea Williamson, just that shallow. “The way she dresses and all.”
She absorbed this. “I don’t know,” she said, shrugging. “Mira’s always been a free spirit, as long as I’ve known her. She’s just Mira.”
There was a crunching of gravel outside as the Rabbit pulled up, radio blasting. Isabel got out, wearing a pair of white sunglasses, and slammed the door.
“Oh, look at this,” Morgan said loudly.
“I don’t want to hear it,” Isabel said, walking right past me, sunglasses still on, heading straight to the coffee machine.
“Where were you last night?”
Isabel pulled down the newly stocked container of filters and balanced it on her leg to pull one out. Then she slipped a bit, knocking a few onto the floor, which she stepped over as she went to start the coffee.
This, of course, sent Morgan into a snit.
“Give me that!” she snapped, grabbing the container and putting it on the counter, reaching in to repair the damage. “I just did these, Isabel.”
I rolled silverware, keeping my head down.
“Sorry,” Isabel said. The machine started gurgling, spitting out coffee, and she stretched and yawned while she watched.
“You know I was worried sick about you,” Morgan said, reaching down to pick up the spilled filters. Just for spite she knocked Isabel’s knee with the dustpan, which she already had at the ready for cleanup.
“Ow.” Isabel stepped aside. “God, Morgan. You’re not my mom. You don’t need to be up nights waiting for me.”
“I didn’t even know where you were,” Morgan grumbled, busily sweeping. “You didn’t leave a note. You could have been—”