moving to Houston, they went out to dinner. It was an Italian restaurant—checkered tablecloths and candles in wine bottles and the heavy greasy pasta they both liked. They finished a bottle of wine and became giggly and secretive, heads together, holding hands and touching knees.
We must look like lovers, she thought, and we are. In a way.
“Look.” Edward was playing with her hand, twirling the silver and amethyst ring he’d given her for Christmas. “Are you really going to stay here? Won’t it be a little rough for you, I mean?”
“I’ve got my parents,” she said.
They both smiled warmly at the joke.
He insisted: “My boss, you know him, Hank Cavendish, he’s being transferred, it’s a big step up for him. He wanted his secretary to go with him, but she won’t leave. I bet anything he’d jump at the chance to hire you if you’d relocate right away.”
“Why not?” she said, giggling, the wine still singing in her ears. “Why not. Where?”
“Oklahoma City.”
“Where’s that?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I do know it’ll be a good move for you. They’re expecting that office to grow pretty fast. Wherever it is.”
She told her parents: “I get a twenty per cent raise, plus medical and dental coverage, plus they are paying my moving expenses.”
They nodded. Figures were something they had no difficulty understanding.
“Will you be coming next Wednesday?” her mother said.
“Next Wednesday. But not the one after that.”
Her mother nodded, the twisted knot of gray and black hair moved up and down slowly.
Don’t you want to ask when I will be back? If I will come back? If I’ll be here at Christmas? If I’ll come back for your funerals? Do you never worry about anything?
“Time to go.” Her father pushed himself up from the table. The atlas lay open, one page soaking in the vinegar of his salad plate.
Go? Where would they go, who never went anywhere? The novena. The Wednesday perpetual novena.
Her mother smoothed back her hair in the sideboard mirror, her father went to put on his leather shoes.
If I stay any longer, I am going to break every dish on the table, or I am going to throw a chair through that window, or I am going to scream and keep on screaming. I am going to dishonor my father and my mother. If I don’t get out of here.
Her chair, pushed too hard, slid back into the wall. The picture of her mother’s first husband shivered and slipped sidewise.
“I’m not going,” she said. Then louder, for her father who was still in the bedroom: “I’m not going to the novena.”
“You always go,” her mother said.
Her father came to the doorway, one shoe still in his hand.
Four eyes, surprised, accusing, puzzled, shocked.
Don’t look at me. You are my parents but don’t look at me that way. You’ve had all you can have from me. One novena more is too much.
“I’ll go next week,” she said. “For the last time, next week.”
They both nodded to her, pyramids of flesh with tiny heads perched on top, like kindergarten drawings.
She hurried through the living room, snatching her coat and purse as she went. Running with fear from something she didn’t know, something that might not have been there, something that might even have loved her.
She drove off, tires squealing, leaving the thing that had chased her growling emptily at the end of the driveway.
By the time she got to the crowded highway, she felt better, the soft singing of the engine comforted her. She opened the window and familiar exhaust-laden air curled across her face and shoulders.
It was a very warm night, she thought. As her mother had said, she hadn’t really needed to bring her coat.
WIDOW’SWALK
M YRA R OWLAND STOPPED HER bright red jeep at the entrance to the beach club. Over the iron gates decorative bunting hung dusty and limp, shivering uncertainly in the small currents of midday air. It was the first day of the new summer season.
“Morning, Frank,” she called
We must look like lovers, she thought, and we are. In a way.
“Look.” Edward was playing with her hand, twirling the silver and amethyst ring he’d given her for Christmas. “Are you really going to stay here? Won’t it be a little rough for you, I mean?”
“I’ve got my parents,” she said.
They both smiled warmly at the joke.
He insisted: “My boss, you know him, Hank Cavendish, he’s being transferred, it’s a big step up for him. He wanted his secretary to go with him, but she won’t leave. I bet anything he’d jump at the chance to hire you if you’d relocate right away.”
“Why not?” she said, giggling, the wine still singing in her ears. “Why not. Where?”
“Oklahoma City.”
“Where’s that?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I do know it’ll be a good move for you. They’re expecting that office to grow pretty fast. Wherever it is.”
She told her parents: “I get a twenty per cent raise, plus medical and dental coverage, plus they are paying my moving expenses.”
They nodded. Figures were something they had no difficulty understanding.
“Will you be coming next Wednesday?” her mother said.
“Next Wednesday. But not the one after that.”
Her mother nodded, the twisted knot of gray and black hair moved up and down slowly.
Don’t you want to ask when I will be back? If I will come back? If I’ll be here at Christmas? If I’ll come back for your funerals? Do you never worry about anything?
“Time to go.” Her father pushed himself up from the table. The atlas lay open, one page soaking in the vinegar of his salad plate.
Go? Where would they go, who never went anywhere? The novena. The Wednesday perpetual novena.
Her mother smoothed back her hair in the sideboard mirror, her father went to put on his leather shoes.
If I stay any longer, I am going to break every dish on the table, or I am going to throw a chair through that window, or I am going to scream and keep on screaming. I am going to dishonor my father and my mother. If I don’t get out of here.
Her chair, pushed too hard, slid back into the wall. The picture of her mother’s first husband shivered and slipped sidewise.
“I’m not going,” she said. Then louder, for her father who was still in the bedroom: “I’m not going to the novena.”
“You always go,” her mother said.
Her father came to the doorway, one shoe still in his hand.
Four eyes, surprised, accusing, puzzled, shocked.
Don’t look at me. You are my parents but don’t look at me that way. You’ve had all you can have from me. One novena more is too much.
“I’ll go next week,” she said. “For the last time, next week.”
They both nodded to her, pyramids of flesh with tiny heads perched on top, like kindergarten drawings.
She hurried through the living room, snatching her coat and purse as she went. Running with fear from something she didn’t know, something that might not have been there, something that might even have loved her.
She drove off, tires squealing, leaving the thing that had chased her growling emptily at the end of the driveway.
By the time she got to the crowded highway, she felt better, the soft singing of the engine comforted her. She opened the window and familiar exhaust-laden air curled across her face and shoulders.
It was a very warm night, she thought. As her mother had said, she hadn’t really needed to bring her coat.
WIDOW’SWALK
M YRA R OWLAND STOPPED HER bright red jeep at the entrance to the beach club. Over the iron gates decorative bunting hung dusty and limp, shivering uncertainly in the small currents of midday air. It was the first day of the new summer season.
“Morning, Frank,” she called
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