animal in the corner of a hospital room. Claudia, too, had spent her time away, returning glassy in the eye and far too lean.
That's what could happen when you pretended too well that pruned shrubs and smooth hair led to control. Then again, it occurred to Lillian, maybe Claudia knew all that. Maybe she had realized it was a matter of geography and blessed history that bombs hadn't fallen here yet and that given some small shifts and bad decisions, it was just a matter of time. Maybe the South with its shield of magnolias and heat seemed safer. In Sarajevo, Lillian thought, people probably didn't waste time thinking about control or the loss of it. You didn't have time. You had soap to buy, and carrots.
Page 48
Lillian said, "Wake up, Duncan," and the dog groaned and rolled to expose his belly to the ceiling. In the garage, she picked up a trowel and went to the driveway to wait for Owen. It came to her then why she was disappointed when she heard Duncan was alive and coming home. She'd done nothing to earn all this rich luck. She'd expected at last to be punished.
Owen drove in and the garage light sprang on automatically. Lillian saw her husband bend to gather his briefcase and the rumpled paper. He wore a gray suit, a color some men at sixty could nearly turn to silver, buffed as a trophy. "Hi," said Lillian.
"Is he back?" Owen said. "What are you doing with a trowel?"
"Yes, he's back. Fast asleep in the kitchen as if nothing had ever happened. It's sort of odd." Lillian looked at Owen, the same clear, rare look she gave Duncan at the airport, as if she hadn't seen her husband for weeks. "Claudia called and wants her iris. I felt like digging. Why don't you come?"
"Iris? Now?" said Owen, shifting his briefcase to the other hand.
"Yes, now," Lillian said.
"You're going to march into their garden and start demolishing flower beds? Aren't there twelve children and a stable of au pairs?"
"Probably all at home, too," said Lillian and started walking toward the Merchants' old house.
Owen followed, arguing. "Lillian, it's trespassing."
"I know, Owen," Lillian sighed, holding the gate for her husband. Lights shone upstairs. Children's voices warbled from the windows along with shrieks and splashing water. Bath time.
Owen whispered, "Don't be crazy."
"Are you coming?" she said in a normal voice.
Owen came behind her, treading carefully. The iris beds sat near a new swing set made of hollow metal tubes. Lillian sank to her knees. The earth was warm on top, wriggling and cool with pine needles an inch lower. There was the first one: the corm
Page 49
Claudia wanted, cool and flaking. "Lillian," Owen hissed behind her. Then she heard a crash. She turned to see he'd slipped on a plastic dump truck and fallen on the swing set, smashing his knee against the seesaw.
"Goddamn it!" he shouted. A light flicked on downstairs. Lillian heard footsteps on hardwood floors. "What did I do to deserve you?" Owen yelled. His briefcase had burst open, page after page of legal paper scattering around the toys.
Leaving the iris and the trowel on the ground, Lillian heaved herself up and went to her husband. She gave him her hand. When he was upright, she dusted his lapels. "We're going to be caught," she said. Her knees were stained with dirt; her hair was probably a mess.
A bulb on the porch snapped on. A tall man in a suit stood there, his face crumpled in a scowl as he peered into the dusk. "What's going on here? Who's there?" he called out.
They stood in the garden, blinking slightly. "Hi," Lillian said. "My name's Lillian. This is Owen. We're your neighbors." She felt blurred and fragile, as if she might not stay whole if she didn't hold hard to her husband. With the other hand, she waved at the angry man, in a gesture that was half surrender, half hello.
Page 50
A Private State
I sat on our porch and played with the plastic fingers of the skeleton my father had bought in New Orleans during his residency. His name was Louis, in honor
That's what could happen when you pretended too well that pruned shrubs and smooth hair led to control. Then again, it occurred to Lillian, maybe Claudia knew all that. Maybe she had realized it was a matter of geography and blessed history that bombs hadn't fallen here yet and that given some small shifts and bad decisions, it was just a matter of time. Maybe the South with its shield of magnolias and heat seemed safer. In Sarajevo, Lillian thought, people probably didn't waste time thinking about control or the loss of it. You didn't have time. You had soap to buy, and carrots.
Page 48
Lillian said, "Wake up, Duncan," and the dog groaned and rolled to expose his belly to the ceiling. In the garage, she picked up a trowel and went to the driveway to wait for Owen. It came to her then why she was disappointed when she heard Duncan was alive and coming home. She'd done nothing to earn all this rich luck. She'd expected at last to be punished.
Owen drove in and the garage light sprang on automatically. Lillian saw her husband bend to gather his briefcase and the rumpled paper. He wore a gray suit, a color some men at sixty could nearly turn to silver, buffed as a trophy. "Hi," said Lillian.
"Is he back?" Owen said. "What are you doing with a trowel?"
"Yes, he's back. Fast asleep in the kitchen as if nothing had ever happened. It's sort of odd." Lillian looked at Owen, the same clear, rare look she gave Duncan at the airport, as if she hadn't seen her husband for weeks. "Claudia called and wants her iris. I felt like digging. Why don't you come?"
"Iris? Now?" said Owen, shifting his briefcase to the other hand.
"Yes, now," Lillian said.
"You're going to march into their garden and start demolishing flower beds? Aren't there twelve children and a stable of au pairs?"
"Probably all at home, too," said Lillian and started walking toward the Merchants' old house.
Owen followed, arguing. "Lillian, it's trespassing."
"I know, Owen," Lillian sighed, holding the gate for her husband. Lights shone upstairs. Children's voices warbled from the windows along with shrieks and splashing water. Bath time.
Owen whispered, "Don't be crazy."
"Are you coming?" she said in a normal voice.
Owen came behind her, treading carefully. The iris beds sat near a new swing set made of hollow metal tubes. Lillian sank to her knees. The earth was warm on top, wriggling and cool with pine needles an inch lower. There was the first one: the corm
Page 49
Claudia wanted, cool and flaking. "Lillian," Owen hissed behind her. Then she heard a crash. She turned to see he'd slipped on a plastic dump truck and fallen on the swing set, smashing his knee against the seesaw.
"Goddamn it!" he shouted. A light flicked on downstairs. Lillian heard footsteps on hardwood floors. "What did I do to deserve you?" Owen yelled. His briefcase had burst open, page after page of legal paper scattering around the toys.
Leaving the iris and the trowel on the ground, Lillian heaved herself up and went to her husband. She gave him her hand. When he was upright, she dusted his lapels. "We're going to be caught," she said. Her knees were stained with dirt; her hair was probably a mess.
A bulb on the porch snapped on. A tall man in a suit stood there, his face crumpled in a scowl as he peered into the dusk. "What's going on here? Who's there?" he called out.
They stood in the garden, blinking slightly. "Hi," Lillian said. "My name's Lillian. This is Owen. We're your neighbors." She felt blurred and fragile, as if she might not stay whole if she didn't hold hard to her husband. With the other hand, she waved at the angry man, in a gesture that was half surrender, half hello.
Page 50
A Private State
I sat on our porch and played with the plastic fingers of the skeleton my father had bought in New Orleans during his residency. His name was Louis, in honor
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