After it’s done, they give her Oreos and grape juice and show her how to wear the pad. She feels a deep and unending emptiness. That’s expected, they tell her. It’s a hard thing. It’s not easy for anyone.
There’s a diner across the street and she treats him to lunch. She orders tomato soup and grilled cheese and he has a burger. He shares his fries. The soup is more fresh and delicious than anything she’s ever tasted before. I just couldn’t do it, she says to Eddy. He doesn’t deserve me. I couldn’t put a baby through all that.
You don’t have to say anything, Eddy says, and touches her hand. You’re beautiful, Catherine. Try to remember that.
When she gets home she finds George and Franny watching some old movie. She offers no explanation and goes up to bed.
He watches her and doesn’t say a word.
In the bathroom, she notices that the wastebasket where she’d left the test is empty. It was right there, hard to miss. She’d left it for him. She’d wanted him to know.
On Wednesday, Bram calls to give them the news that Justine is awake. With amazement bordering on euphoria, she drives to the hospital alone. A little frightened, she follows the nurse down to her room.
Justine, she cries, hugging her. Thank God you’re all right. She pulls up a chair and takes her hand.
Justine searches her face like some long-lost relative. I’ve been in another place, she says.
Catherine nods. You’ve been sleeping for a long time. Do you remember anything? Do you know what happened?
Justine shakes her head. No, not really. I remember being terrified, but I don’t know why. She looks out the window, where you can see the tops of the trees.
I don’t know where the sun went, Catherine says.
They said more snow on the news this morning.
Catherine nods. It’s snowed a lot since, well, since your accident.
They sit there looking out the window, not talking.
It’s such a beautiful world, Justine says. People don’t know. They don’t realize what they have.
She turns her head back to Catherine and squeezes her hand. You have to live exactly the way you want to, she says. I know it’s hard to know what that is. But life—
She stops talking suddenly and shakes her head, as if it’s impossible to put her thoughts into words. I saw things, she says finally. Marvelous things.
She leans back against the pillow as if the conversation has exhausted her, and Catherine decides she’d better go. She gets up and starts for the door.
It’s a fragile thing, life is, Justine says. That’s something I know now. You have to live your own way. Before it’s too late.
—
THE NEXT MORNING, when George is at work, she begins to pack while Franny watches her programs. She thinks of calling her mother. I’m leaving him, she imagines telling her. He’s a dangerous man. But the possibility of her mother’s clever persuasion worries her and she decides against it. Because her mother doesn’t know George, not really. In her mother’s eyes, their marriage has the blue-ribbon stamp of authenticity.
She finishes filling the suitcases, packing in as much as she can, then lugs them downstairs and out to the car. There is the sense in her mind that she must leave and leave now, and she is filled with a nearly desperate excitement. But the weather is not cooperating. A storm descends, a harrowing blizzard. Schools are closed, roads unplowed. Still, she dresses Franny in her coat and hat and socks and snow boots, moving slowly, numbly, fumbling with her pocketbook, her keys, the bag of snacks she prepared for the drive. As they walk to the car, the snow whirls up in their faces and Franny starts to cry. She hurries her into her car seat, furious at George for making her park outside, more concerned about his stupid ragtop than his wife and daughter. There have been signs, she thinks. There have been signs all along. She just couldn’t see them.
She starts the engine, shifts into reverse, but the car doesn’t move and the wheels spin futilely in the snow. She floors the engine and it makes an awful sound like someone screaming. Defeated, she shuts it off.
Why can’t we go, Momma?
We’re stuck.
Stuck?
In the snow. She sits there, unwilling to move, too angry to even cry as it becomes ominously clear to her that they won’t be going anywhere.
Resigned to the weather, she leaves the suitcases in the car and brings Franny inside, shielding her from the falling snow as if from an explosion. She will try again later, she decides, once the roads are cleared.
But with classes canceled, George is home earlier than usual. She hears him coming in, stamping snow off his boots. She doesn’t bother getting up. He is looking for her now, searching the rooms downstairs, speaking her name to the darkening emptiness with growing agitation until he finds her there in the bed.
What’s wrong?
Be quiet, Franny’s sleeping.
Are you ill?
Another headache, she lies.
They closed the interstate, he mutters. I had some time getting home.
I wish it would stop.
He stands there in his overcoat. What are those suitcases doing in your car?
I was going to…
Going to what?
With difficulty, she pulls herself up, as if there’s a great weight upon her, a great force pushing her down, and then the truth falls from her mouth. I tried to leave, she blurts. But I couldn’t get out.
Of course you couldn’t, he says, his voice unusually soft. He sits down beside her on the bed. She can smell the cold on him and something else, the faintest scent of pine.
I thought I’d go—
Where? He looks at her with confusion.
Home, she says, barely audible, her lips trembling.
Your home is here, Cathy. He puts his hand on her back, heavy, heavy, her old name ringing in her ears, making her cry, and finally nothing seems to matter anymore—who they are—what they are—the ridiculous game they’ve been playing—and she says what’s been on her mind for months: The seat was wet.
What?
That night. In your car.
I don’t know what you’re talking about.
It was soaked.
What’s wrong with you? he says.
You were on that boat, weren’t you? The night Floyd drowned.
He shakes his head and looks at her strangely. I think you’ve really fucking lost it, he says. Abruptly, his face drains of all emotion and he clutches her arm and pulls her up and shuffles her out into the hall, down the stairs. I want that car unpacked. Now. You won’t be needing any suitcases, I can promise you that. He shoves her out the door and slams it shut.
Without her coat, her shoes, it’s freezing out. Shaking, she gathers the suitcases, cold tears running down her face. She swats them away irritably. She will have to appease him somehow; she will have to convince him she didn’t mean it—that she understands, even forgives. A secret she will keep forever, she rehearses telling him.
She brings the suitcases inside. Of course he doesn’t help her. He watches her struggle to carry them upstairs. She takes everything out and stuffs it back into the drawers, then shoves the empty suitcases into the closet. In despair, she sits down on the bed and tries to think, to plan. She can hear him in the kitchen, the sound of steak frying on a too-high flame, the fat sizzling in the pan, wafting smoke. She can hear her daughter’s voice.
Somehow they get through dinner. He fixes her a plate and sets it down, but she can hardly eat. She cuts the meat in tiny pieces, the limp green beans jumbled in her mouth. There’s wine, thick and bitter, and he makes her drink some. For your nerves, he tells her, refilling her glass.
She tries not to look at him. But he won’t stop looking at her, chewing slowly, deliberating. They’re enemies, she realizes. True, bitter enemies. She can feel his hatred of her. His wanting something—she doesn’t know what. Planning something.
She cleans up the kitchen, conscious of his whereabouts. He plays with Franny—such a good d
addy. Noisy. Forced. Making her laugh too hard.
Time for bed, she interrupts.
No, Momma.
Come on, sweetie, she says, holding out her hand.
She gives Franny a bath, then puts on her pajamas and reads to her, snuggled up close in her warm little bed, alert to the vicious wind, the whirling snow, the black thoughtless trees. Both grateful and impatient, she watches her daughter fall asleep.
The house is quiet. She’s lost track of him. They are like animals in the woods, waiting, waiting. She tiptoes into the hall and looks down through the banister spindles. The rooms are dark, but she can smell the joint he’s lit in his study, and hears a glass clunking down on his desk, the rattle of ice.
Suddenly drained, she takes a shower, and lets the water pour over her face, her open mouth. Her whole body aches. It comes to her that she has been through something intense, these months here in this house. They have taken so much from her that she doesn’t believe she will ever be the same.
She puts on her nightgown and sits on the bed, brushing out her hair. She thinks maybe she should call someone. She doesn’t feel safe. But look at the snow, the falling sleet. She hates its icy indifference, its mindless treachery. She hates that God has trapped her in this house. She hadn’t closed the shades, and the windows reflect the perfect symmetry of the room: the bed with its two pillows, two nightstands, two lamps—and two women, one of flesh, the other of air.
Then
AT FIRST there is the awful weight, her head impossibly heavy, her hair coated with something thick as syrup, and a blade jutting out. It is medieval, she thinks, a medieval death, but it is of no consequence to her. She doesn’t feel any pain, only amazement. She rises then and looks down at her body, draped in blood, and at the figure waiting for her in a circle of light.
Are you ready to join us?
Yes, she answers. Yes, I’m ready.
You are loved; you have nothing to fear.
A watery light leads her out, shimmering and dancing over the dreaming child. Her cold breath turns the mobile with its tiny fairies the size of thimbles in pointy hats; the music plays. The girl opens her eyes, but only for an instant. She watches the mobile, transfixed by its circular motion, and again sinks into dreams.
The field is white, the sky. The trees—they, too, are white. God’s light pouring through. Blinded by it, she disappears into the beautiful oblivion.
Behavioral Science
1
IT’S TOO EARLY to go in, so he stops at a doughnut shop down the road from the college. He sits there a moment, looking through his windshield. A few stragglers go inside. The cold hits him when he gets out. He buttons his coat, but the lining’s torn and a draft seeps up his back. A banker’s coat, he thinks, either a banker or a gangster, one of his father’s hand-me-downs that he’s been wearing since graduate school. He meant to have his wife mend it—sewing being one of her many practical talents—but now he decides he should just get rid of it. Like most things, the coat has outlived its usefulness.
The sweet warmth wafts over him when he steps inside. The smell of coffee and powdered sugar. He tells them what he wants and then takes the coffee and doughnut over to a table on a little brown tray. The windows are so bright it hurts to look out. The plastic chair barks when he sits down and takes off his gloves. He has to concentrate on picking up the cup, putting it down. The coffee is too hot. With his hands in his lap, he watches the black woman behind the counter as she takes care of her customers, her smile flashing bright before going flat again as soon as the person turns away. Such dishonesty is a riddle, he thinks. At this hour it’s mostly construction workers pulling up in diesel pickups, no women to speak of except the one behind the counter and another mopping the floor, and he smells the restroom every time somebody goes through the door. The doughnut is nice to look at, a pillow of fried dough filled with jelly. It reminds him of sticking his tongue into something. Taking a bite, he knows to be careful not to drop any of it on his clothes. It’s the sort of thing that can ruin a shirt.
2
THEY GET OUT early, since it’s the start of winter recess. People are going away. Not him, he’s not going anywhere. But he is glad to be out of school.
Mr. Clare had asked him. He knew it was a half-day and said he’d pay extra.
The shades are pulled. That’s the first thing he notices. But her car’s here, parked under the big tree, as usual. Maybe she’s sewing, sitting at her machine. But when he goes inside, through the unlocked door, he doesn’t hear the hum of the machine or anything else. He stands there a minute, listening. The house is quiet. Only the windows trembling a little. And then he sees the money.
He moves the sugar bowl and counts out the bills. A hundred dollars. More money than he’s ever seen in his life. He wonders: Is this for me?
There’s a note, too. From him. My wife is ill, please do not disturb her. Franny should take her usual nap. Her bottle is in the fridge. You can go once she’s asleep.
He shoves the note in his pocket with the money. He can feel the wad of cash on his leg. Hello? Anybody here? Franny?
He hears Franny upstairs in the hall. She comes down the stairs on her bottom, one step at a time. She’s still in her PJs. The house smells a little like throw-up and the stuff you use to clean it up with.
Hey, Franny.
Momma sick, she says, dragging her bunny.
I know.
Franny frowns and shakes her head. Momma sick, she says again.
Should I go up?
She whines a little and collapses to all fours. With her head jerking she looks like a whinnying horse. I want my momma, she cries.
Cole stands there trying to think. Franny doesn’t seem right. Wound up, loopy, maybe a little sick. Want to watch TV?
They curl up on the couch in the living room and watch cartoons.
After a while, Franny says she’s hungry. They go into the kitchen to see what there is to eat. There’s a plate of sandwiches in the fridge and he brings that out. They sit at the table and Franny eats and he pours her some apple juice. He can tell Mr. Clare made the sandwiches, because the crusts are still on and Mrs. Clare always cuts them off. But Franny eats them anyway, leaving the crusts on the plate. He decides he’s hungry, too, and makes a sandwich for himself and pours himself a glass of milk.
I want my bobba, she says, seeing her bottle.
Why are you talking like a baby, Franny?
She stamps her feet and jumps up and down. I want my momma!
Be quiet, she’s sleeping.
But I want her, Cole.
I know. But she’s sick. Let’s go back and watch TV.
They watch for another hour, and he says, Are you ready to take your nap?
She nods. I want my bobba!
Okay, okay.
When he takes the bottle out, something sticky gets on his hands. There’s a smell, too, like grape, and he thinks there’s something in it.
I thirsty, she says, reaching for it.
You’re too old for a bobba.
No I ant! She starts to fuss and cry and jump around again.
So he gives it to her. Be quiet, you’re going to wake your mother up.
Momma sick.
I know. Shhhhh!
Franny puts her finger to her lips. Shhhhh!
It’s dark in her room, the shades pulled over the windows, the night-light burning. It registers in his mind that no one came in here today. Usually, by the time he gets here, the light’s shining in and her bed is made. But now the room’s messy and dark. Since she’s about to take her nap, he leaves it alone. You sleepy?
Franny nods and climbs up on the bed and he covers her and hands her the bunny and she squeezes it tight. She’s just a little girl, he thinks. For some reason it worries him.
Drink your bobba, Franny.
She does. And her eyes flutter closed.
Out in the hall it’s quiet. Too quiet, he thinks.
He knocks lightly on the Clares’ door.
Mrs. Clare?
Nothing.
He puts his hand on the knob. Mrs. Clare? Catherine? No answer. I’m going now, he says, a little louder. She’s sleeping, he decides, and leaves, just as Mr. Clare had instructed him to in his note.
Walking up to the ridge, he tries to remember if his mother ever got sick. She caught colds every now and then, jamming her used tissues up her sleeves, but she never took to her bed like this. She was too busy to be sick. There had been times when Cole faked sick. One morning when he didn’t get up to milk and his brothers accused him of faking, she sat on the side of his bed and pushed the hair off his forehead and said he felt a little warm, even though they both knew he wasn’t sick, just being lazy. He remembers her saying that going to school or not was up to him, it was his business, and that she assumed he had his reasons for not wanting to go and that was all right with her. You need to make up your own mind, she’d said. And then she brought him tea and toast and even bought him comics later, when she went into town.
For some reason he starts running. Something telling him to get far from that house. How weird the trees look, like they’re outlined in pencil, the clouds hard and full like their cows’ udders. The field is deep, his boots fill with snow and a chill rises up his legs. He almost can’t make it. He gets through the woods to the empty lot and then cuts through backyards, hearing people in their houses, mothers calling in their kids, and he’s relieved to be back in town.
He finds Eugene at Bell’s, playing pinball. Where were you?
Nowhere. He kicks the snow off his boots and drops off his coat.
You can go, Eugene says, and Cole takes a turn, shaking the warm sides of the machine with all his strength. The ball shoots up and he wins a free game. The whole time, he’s aware of the money in his pocket. It feels like something dangerous. He tries to forget the absolute silence of Mrs. Clare’s room. He knows that silence. He knows, because the house told him.