You can stop now, Mother, I’m convinced. She hung up.
The conversation confirmed that the only thing keeping them married was Franny. Their daughter was the mascot of victory, and a prize only one of them could keep.
She took her cigarettes and sat on the screened porch. She could see Wade in the distance on the tractor, mowing the field, going back and forth, back and forth. Faintly, she could hear a Rolling Stones song on his radio.
The day was overcast, the field thick with fog. She stepped outside and walked into the field. The humid air clung to her. She stood there alone in the middle of it. She could feel her outlines blurring, as if she could fade into the opaque landscape and disappear.
Takers
1
IN A SMALL TOWN like theirs, people talked. You couldn’t get far without somebody knowing your business. Mary Lawton didn’t consider herself a gossip, but you’d still hear things. It spiced up your day. Someone would see something and tell this person or that one, who told somebody else, and all of a sudden it was real. It was news.
The girl worked at the inn, everybody knew that. People had seen them together. Her shiny black hair was hard to miss. Something about her—bold was the word. That figure. Those jeans. Mary had overheard some of the men joking about her, what they’d like to do to her if they had the chance. Keep dreaming, she thought.
One afternoon Mary saw her coming out of Hack’s with Eddy Hale. They had their arms around each other and were looking plenty intimate. It made her angry, since Eddy had been hurt enough already. The girl had silver bracelets up her arm that looked like a Slinky and jangled when she moved. When Mary said hello, Eddy went a little pink, but his mother had taught him to be polite and he put down his bag and introduced them. This is Willis, he said. Willis, Mary Lawton.
The girl had the tentative beauty of a roadside flower. She smiled at Mary.
Willis is working over at the inn, Eddy explained. That’s where we met.
They talked a while longer and he told Mary he’d applied to a music college somewhere in Boston. He asked about her family, careful to avoid the subject of Alice, and she told him nothing was new and then they parted and she stood there a minute, reflecting on what a nice, good boy he was and how that girl, whoever she was, didn’t deserve him.
It was after school, and groups of kids were walking through town with their backpacks, the girls with their leather pocketbooks. Two came out of Bell’s Five-and-Dime with orange and purple lips; they had a new snow cone machine that was all the rage among middle-schoolers. Walking past the window, she saw Cole Hale and her son, Travis Jr., standing at the counter on either side of Patrice Wilson—Mary knew her parents. She turned on her stool from one boy to the other, giving each the attention he desired, but Mary knew there’d only be one winner in that contest. She considered knocking on the glass, but thought better of it. The last thing Travis needed was his mother catching him in the act of being himself.
—
THE TOWN WAS changing. You could see it in the cars parked along Main Street. Used to be only pickups and jalopies. One or two new shops had opened, sprucing up filthy storefronts with snappy awnings and brightly painted signs. City people with deep pockets were buying up the old farms that nobody could afford to operate, much less maintain. Honestly, she didn’t mind her commissions going up, but it was hard for everybody else. People like the Hales, who’d lost it all. You couldn’t blame people for being angry. And it could make things difficult for newcomers like the Clares, forever distinguished as those people who bought the Hale farm. They were outsiders, and the fact that he was a professor didn’t help. Only a few Chosen High graduates went to college, usually to the community college in Troy for the cheap tuition and a full roster of night classes. Every few years, one or two went to Saginaw, which cost twice as much as the state university. For all of them, travel typically meant they’d enlisted and been stationed in some exotic place. Most of the boys in town had served. Her own Travis would likely want to go, but she intended to talk him out of it.
Still—the Clares didn’t exactly try to fit in. They kept to themselves. She’d see the wife in church, always alone, slipping into a back pew and leaving early, before the concluding prayers. More than once, Mary had seen her emerging from the confessional, dabbing at tears with a handkerchief.
As the weeks passed, Mary detected a strain in her eyes, but maybe she was reading too much into it. The cool darkness of the sanctuary did bring out people’s emotions, the constant draft over their heads, the smell of candles, the beautiful idea of God. Because you had to wonder if He really was up there. What you did in church—you came to terms with things. You came to terms.
She would pray hard. For her children, her husband. For the world to settle down. She would pray with every ounce of strength. She’d go home, put her feet up and review, not without despair, the consequences of her life. You had to live with the choices you made. You had to live with your mistakes.
—
ONE AFTERNOON, she drove over to the farm to deliver a church flyer. The door was open and she peered through the screen. She could hear the child pattering around upstairs. The house seemed unusually orderly. Mary remembered how hard it was to keep house with a little one underfoot, but not a single thing was out of place. Even the old wood floors seemed to gleam. No clutter to speak of. No toys, no papers, no shoes. They didn’t have a bell—country houses often didn’t—and she was about to knock when she heard a muffled cry. Let’s not be dramatic, she told herself, and then it came again. It was quiet for another minute, and then the child began to sob, the abrupt result, Mary guessed, of some sudden indignity.
It set her blood boiling. She knocked hard on the screen door and it rattled in its frame. George Clare came down the stairs, holding the little girl on his hip, his expression unfriendly, cold. The vague smell of gin. The child blinked back tears, her eyes wet, her lashes thick. He stood at the door, looking at her.
Is this a bad time?
He didn’t answer but was clearly displeased. The child shuddered, wiping her eyes with her little fist.
Is Catherine—
She’s indisposed.
Mary had never fully grasped the meaning of that word.
Momma sick, the little girl said.
Well, that’s too bad. I was hoping—
Just a headache.
The little girl frowned at Mary.
Your poor mommy has a headache?
The child looked at her father uneasily. Momma sick!
Nothing serious, he said pointedly, standing taller, rigid.
Well, if you could just give her this, Mary said, handing him the flyer. We’re having a potluck supper. At church? We’d love for you all to come.
George glanced at the blue sheet, then back at her. I’ll give it to her, he said, but she suspected he wouldn’t. The way he was looking out at her made her nervous. Something about his eyes made her want to leave immediately.
Thanks so much, she said, her singsong as phony as margarine, feeling his gaze piercing her back as she walked to her car and drove away.
—
TO MARY’S SURPRISE, they came to the potluck. George knew how to make an appearance, something he’d learned at those fancy schools. He was wearing a suit and bow tie and had shaved and combed his hair. She supposed he was attractive; some women would think so. Hello, Mary, he said, in that slippery tone of his.
Welcome to St. James’s—
But he’d already turned away.
Catherine and the girl were dressed in mother/daughter dresses, navy blue shifts with thin green sashes. When Mary complimented her, Catherine said, with pride, that she’d made them herself. Look at my party shoes, Franny said, pointing down at her Mary Janes.
Her first pair, Catherine said.
For a tiny, self-indulgent moment Mary had a memory of taking Alice to Browne’s for shoes when she was that age—when things were simple and she wasn’t shooting drugs into her veins. Ma
ry had tried to do all the right things: Catholic school, music lessons, ballet. She’d been a wonderful little girl, and it was amazing to think that such a heinous transformation was even possible. Almost a year had passed since she’d seen her. Seven months and three days since she’d heard from her. The last time had been a call from a phone booth in San Mateo.
Travis shot her a look now. He could always tell when she was thinking about their daughter—this dark thing they shared, their mistake. On the one hand, it drove them apart; on the other, it bound them together inseparably.
Are you feeling better? she asked Catherine.
Better? She looked confused.
You had a headache. The other day, when I—
Oh, that. She glanced at her husband, who was skirting the periphery of the party, looking bored and talking to no one. I get them sometimes, she said. Her eyes seemed to cloud over.
You okay?
Of course—I’m fine, thank you. Meaning: It’s none of your goddamn business.
Well—Mary took her hand—you need anything, just let me know, all right?
She met her eyes for a moment and nodded. Thank you, Mary. I will.
—
THEY’D DRAWN a good crowd and everyone brought something. Father Geary had made his famous chicken fricassee. For a priest, he was an accomplished cook. Catherine Clare had deviled some eggs, neatly arranged on a large plate. Everybody loved Mary’s salads, so she made coleslaw and her mother’s German potato salad. They put all of the food out on the long table in the courtyard. She had supplied the tablecloths, and there was plenty of iced tea and lemonade to go around. She noticed the Hale boys lurking on the other side of the fence and was glad when Father Geary waved them over. Probably needed something to eat, she figured. They looked up to the priest, although they’d stopped coming to mass. Cole and Travis Jr. used to sit together, acting up all through the service. Not wanting to seem intrusive, she and Travis would sit several pews behind, watching the backs of their heads. What thick hair they had! How tall they were getting! After church, they always went back to her house for supper, and she knew Cole liked her cooking, usually a roast and potatoes, something to warm him up, served on her good china. And he wasn’t shy, good for him. You could see how much the poor thing missed his mother. Sometimes her eyes would tear up in the kitchen. What’s the matter now? Travis would bark, and she’d fan her face and say she’d eaten something hot. It’s nothing. Nothing.
Her husband could be difficult. Making friends wasn’t one of his specialties. But he had good manners; he knew how to behave. With pride and just a sprinkle of impertinence, she watched him introduce himself to George Clare. Unlike Travis, who was built like a grizzly bear and acted like a friendly one, George had a droopy handshake, like he’d rather wash his hands, and wouldn’t look him in the eye. Though, to be fair, people could act funny around cops. But still.
—
A FEW WEEKS LATER, the Clares had a party, what they called “an open house.” To Mary’s surprise, she and Travis were invited.
Do we have to go? he asked.
Yes.
But we’re no good at parties.
Speak for yourself.
But it was true, and they didn’t get many invitations. It was something she’d gotten used to as a cop’s wife. Cops and priests, Travis would joke. Nobody wants us around.
It was nice of them to include us, Mary said. We’re going.
It was a Friday night. Travis was still at work, and Travis Jr. was at a friend’s for a sleepover. Wanting to be neighborly, Mary had made a chocolate cake for the occasion. After a long bath, she’d dressed carefully and put on some makeup. She was looking forward to a little excitement.
When Travis finally got home, he ambled up the walk in no particular hurry, twirling the keys in his hand. After eighteen years of marriage, she still liked the look of him, his big football shoulders, his loose gait—a man who knew who he was. As it turned out, that was no small accomplishment these days. Her husband wasn’t easily distracted or tempted by what most people considered the finer things in life. It gave her a certain assurance, knowing he’d never cheat on her, but, on the other hand, his imagination was limited when it came to romance. No, he was a man of routine. He’d been driving the same old pickup for years, she the same old station wagon. He favored home cooking to eating out—suspicious of restaurants, especially Chinese—and didn’t like surprises of any kind. And she’d learned to keep her thoughts to herself. If I want your opinion, he would say, I’ll be sure to ask for it. She did what he asked of her and never questioned it.
When she kissed his damp cheek she smelled the beer he’d just drunk over at Jackson’s with Wiley Burke. We have that party, don’t you remember?
Half lidded, bored. Aren’t you ready?
Let me get my purse.
Oh, so you’re not ready?
I’m ready, for God’s sakes, she said, thinking: What happened to the gentleman I married?
In the car, she filled the space with words—their son’s day at school, his soccer practice, the snack he’d had after, the Swanson’s TV dinner she’d made him—fried chicken, his favorite—and then he was off to his friend’s house. Travis drove, pretending to listen, which was better than bickering over this party.
He turned into Old Farm Road and the house was all lit up, rock-and-roll music spilling from its windows. A far cry from the old Hale place, and she thought Cal, who’d had little tolerance for disorder, would be rolling in his grave. The barns were freshly painted and the house was in the process, the shutters taken down and leaning up against the side. Cars were parked along the road. Travis pulled their dirty Country Squire up on the grass, behind an old white Volvo with a peeling green Jimmy Carter sticker on its bumper. That’s done a whole lot of good, Travis scoffed, pointing. He shoulda stuck to peanuts.
Oh, go on, she said. Don’t let’s start on that.
They got out and straightened their clothes. It was just getting dark, the sky a pretty blue—cop-blue, she decided. She took his hand and kissed it. What’s that for? he said.
Grump. She pulled him close and wrapped his arm around her like a favorite coat. They walked up the dirt road, and it occurred to her that this was all she’d really wanted, just these few moments, walking with her husband’s arm around her. Such a small thing, she thought, yet so fine and rare. But it didn’t last. She stopped abruptly to shake a pebble out of her shoe. Hold this, she said, handing him the cake plate, then kicked off her shoe.
What you wear them things for?
They’re pretty. Admit it.
Yeah, they are. And so are you.
She felt immeasurably touched by this. Thank you, Travis.
He nodded bashfully, like a man who in fact still loved his wife.
She put her shoe back on and took the cake. That’s better.
As they neared the house, the music grew louder.
Thinking of her friend Ella, she felt something catch in her throat. Her family and the Hales went way back. Every Sunday night there were bridge games, canasta, even mah-jongg. Mary loved going along, listening to the women talk, sneaking M&M’s from the candy dish. The mothers with their scarves and gloves and perfume. Their lives rich with such niceties as cigarette boxes, gold-plated lighters, monogrammed handkerchiefs. These days, you couldn’t even count on somebody to hold a door open for you. The courtesies she’d so diligently taught her kids seemed to be vanishing. They were what had defined this country, after all, what defined them as Americans! She was on her soapbox now. Well, she just didn’t know, given how some people behaved. Just last week she’d taken around a young couple from Westchester who wanted a summer home. They had a baby—a very disagreeable baby, she might add. Wouldn’t you know, a few hours later she detected an odor in her car and found a dirty diaper crammed under the seat! Who would do such a thing? This perfectly nice couple had. Sometimes it got to her, the things she saw in people. How careless they could be.
The ai
r smelled of newly harvested fields, and it was a warm, sultry night. Already she’d begun to sweat. Her sleeveless cotton dress was the perfect choice for an evening like this, but she hated her flabby arms, better to keep the cardigan on. It would cool off soon enough, she hoped. They walked around to the backyard, where guests were standing around under paper lanterns that swung in the trees like hornet nests. There was a long table with food and bottles of wine and empty bottles with candles stuck in them. Chairs of all shapes and sizes grazed in the thick grass, some holding guests, others askew and others still where it looked like Franny had made a fort.
For a moment, she and Travis stood on the outskirts like children waiting to be chosen for a game, she thought, suffering all the emotions that went with it. She saw George across the yard, talking to a woman in a sleeveless blouse and a long skirt. Her arms were mottled like softened butter, but she didn’t seem to care, or about the tufts of hair beneath them, and Mary could tell she wasn’t wearing a bra. It was Justine Sokolov, she realized. Justine and her husband owned a farm a few miles south. From what she’d heard, money wasn’t an issue and her father-in-law was some famous conductor.
That shouldn’t be allowed, Travis whispered to her.
Justine’s skirt was like a circus tent and a thin chain of gold glimmered around her ankle. Her feet were bare, and she was looking at George with something more than interest. Typically, he was wearing a linen suit and his standard white shirt. He had a girlish habit of brushing his scruffy hair off his forehead. Certain men could get away with longer hair, but not Travis. And men like Travis didn’t wear linen, either. Linen belonged in tablecloths and napkins. Her husband didn’t even own a suit, not even for funerals, where he wore his uniform instead.