Other Women by Lisa Alther Page B

intention, any more than Jim Jones originally intended to poison his followers.
    Marking out “unkind” and “dishonest,” she wrote “well-meanBut was she, she wondered as she chewed her pencil eraser. To eat she allowed plants and animals to be slaughtered in her behalf. When she walked, she squashed insects. When she breathed, she butchered bacteria. Her white blood cells were destroying germs every second. Even to live was to be a murderer.
    Diana sauntered down the corridor, her head with its scrambled red hair turned toward Suzanne, her bedroom eyes laughing. Suzanne looked as thrilled and expectant as Arnold when he confronted his first dead woodchuck. They wore street clothes-corduroy jeans, parkas, boots.
    As they headed out the door, Diana called to Caroline, “Don’t worry about me if I’m out late.”
    Pencil poised, Caroline considered this remark.
    If Diana stayed out late tonight, it would be no comfort to know she was doing so with
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    Suzanne. It would be preferable to have her dead on the highway. So Diana wanted to play hardball?
    Maybe Brian Stone should be encouraged. Too bad he had to be a man.
    Inspecting these thoughts, Caroline added “ungenerous”
    to her list. But damn it, she’d usually done her best. When Maureen, the Irish maid who told horror stories about British rule, sobbed with homesickness, Caroline patted her
    orange hair and told her everything would be all right.
    When her father limped home with colitis from fighting court cases for minority groups, Caroline ran his bath and rubbed his temples. As he bathed, she polished his shoes. When her mother returned from the welfare office where she began working after the war, Caroline brought her tea, turned on the opera, and covered her with a blanket in her armchair under the seal from her college that read “Non Ministrari sed Ministrare.” Not to be ministered unto but to minister.
    Which was what Caroline had always tried to do. While her parents rested, she kept Howard and Tommy quiet by locking them in the playroom and making them play medical missionary.
    For Christmas one year their parents gave them each sponsorship of a Save-the-Children child. Caroline’s, from Kentucky, was named Stanley Horton. In his picture he had no shoes and very few sound teeth.
    He wrote every month and sent a picture of his house, a shack sided with tar paper and roofed with tin Nehi signs. At dinner she, Howard, and Tommy would pass around the pictures and notes, and their parents would explain that because they were so privileged, they had a responsibility to those less fortunate. Caroline began saving her baby-sitting money to buy Stanley special treats, like Band-Aids in the shape of stars.
    Sandra removed the stack of charts from under Caroline’s elbow, saying, “Let me get these out of your way, sweetie.”
    Caroline studied her list, most of which was crossed out. She erased “ungenerous” and examined “well-meaning.” But what about when she used to place Howard at the bottom of the stairs and dangle his teddy bear on a noose by its neck just out of his reach, hissing, “I know what you want and you can’t have it”? What about the time she bit Maureen so that she had to have four stitches? She crossed out “well-meaning.” Nothing was left. Fuck it, she wouldn’t do the list.
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    She didn’t see the point anyhow. She tore it up and dropped the pieces in the gray metal waste can.
    Brenda leaned on the desk with both fists. “Ready to roll a few strikes, babe?”
    Caroline looked up. Brenda reminded her a bit of Arlene, her favorite teacher at nursing school-the same massive build, like a vertical iron lung; the same mindless dedication to her profession. But unlike Arlene, Brenda played as hard as she worked, always organizing sports leagues and excursions to nearby bars.
    “Sure thing,” Caroline replied without enthusiasm.
    She’d forgotten this afternoon was bowling. This was her week to tend the kids.