stupid enough to marry him, and she was paying for it still. And now the best of the three good things to result from her stupidity was gone.
John was dead. Even as she thought the words to herself, Jane felt a strange distance from them and her surroundings. She was proud that she had not broken down, that she hadn’t made an exhibition of herself. She was strong, like her mother, who had never cried, not even on the night her husband had been lost at sea. Jane was not the victim of her emotions. In fact, she was under such firm control that she was able to watch, dispassionately, as the old Wylie sisters, Jane’s clients for many years, sidled up to the long table on which were heaped dozens of gaily wrapped presents, some impressively huge and showy with ribbons, others tiny, no larger than a single silver spoon. Euphenia and Eudoxia Wylie conferred like a team of lawyers in front of the gift table, whispering behind their hands. Jane was not too overcome by sorrow to fail to observe as Eudoxia reached with a furtive hand for a shapeless package wrapped in silvery, well-creased snowflake-patterned paper; and plucked it off the large pile.
Jane smiled grimly. Her world might have been stood on its ear, but at least the fundamental tenet of her philosophy—that no matter what they pretended, people looked out only for themselves—remained reliably in place. Look at the Wylie girls (as they were known, though both were well beyond girlhood or even middle age). Pillars of society, sat on the vestry of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, ran the charity jams-and-jellies booth at theBlueberry Festival. Proud descendants of one of Red Hook’s founding families. Yet they still paid Jane to clean their drafty old barn of a house what they’d paid her mother twenty years before—$10, an extra $2.50 if she did the windows. The really shocking thing was that Jane, a woman who never hesitated to speak her mind and get what she was owed, let the old birds get away with it. Jane had stopped being a woman who let others take advantage of her a dozen years ago, the first time that John calmly put himself between her and Frank Tetherly’s right hand. John was strong without violence, masculine without rage. He had shown her that she did not have to take for granted the history of men and women in her family. She could be different, too. She had borrowed money from her mother, hired a lawyer, and threw Frank out of the house. And from then on if someone tried to take advantage of her or failed to treat her with respect, she showed them the door. But she had never shown Euphenia and Eudoxia Wylie the door, even though after she paid her girls their $7 an hour each, it ended up costing Jane to clean their house. The Wylie sisters had been the first to hire Jane’s mother after Jane’s father died, and more than once their paltry $10 a week had been all that stood between Jane’s family and empty bellies. Even after her situation had improved, Jane’s mother had retained a soft spot all her life for the Wylie sisters. When she was a little girl, Jane had spent many an afternoon playing checkers with Miss Doxie, the more easygoing of the two, while her mother scrubbed out their icebox and swabbed Lysol around their kitchen floor.
Jane watched the two old women shuffle with their reclaimed booty out of the propped-open door, the floral fabric of their good Sunday dresses stretched across their flat rumps in a crosshatch of creases.
Maureen, Jane’s daughter, followed her gaze. Maureen’s face was puffed up even more than usual, her eyelids and the end of her nose as pink as a rabbit’s.
“Cheap old bitches,” Maureen said.
Jane shrugged.
Matt put his head down on the table.
“You need to throw up again?” Jane asked. The boy, like his father, had a weak stomach. Matt shook his head, his cheek still pressed to the table. “Good,” she said.
Matt had been following the limousine in John’s car—it had been hisjob to drive
John was dead. Even as she thought the words to herself, Jane felt a strange distance from them and her surroundings. She was proud that she had not broken down, that she hadn’t made an exhibition of herself. She was strong, like her mother, who had never cried, not even on the night her husband had been lost at sea. Jane was not the victim of her emotions. In fact, she was under such firm control that she was able to watch, dispassionately, as the old Wylie sisters, Jane’s clients for many years, sidled up to the long table on which were heaped dozens of gaily wrapped presents, some impressively huge and showy with ribbons, others tiny, no larger than a single silver spoon. Euphenia and Eudoxia Wylie conferred like a team of lawyers in front of the gift table, whispering behind their hands. Jane was not too overcome by sorrow to fail to observe as Eudoxia reached with a furtive hand for a shapeless package wrapped in silvery, well-creased snowflake-patterned paper; and plucked it off the large pile.
Jane smiled grimly. Her world might have been stood on its ear, but at least the fundamental tenet of her philosophy—that no matter what they pretended, people looked out only for themselves—remained reliably in place. Look at the Wylie girls (as they were known, though both were well beyond girlhood or even middle age). Pillars of society, sat on the vestry of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, ran the charity jams-and-jellies booth at theBlueberry Festival. Proud descendants of one of Red Hook’s founding families. Yet they still paid Jane to clean their drafty old barn of a house what they’d paid her mother twenty years before—$10, an extra $2.50 if she did the windows. The really shocking thing was that Jane, a woman who never hesitated to speak her mind and get what she was owed, let the old birds get away with it. Jane had stopped being a woman who let others take advantage of her a dozen years ago, the first time that John calmly put himself between her and Frank Tetherly’s right hand. John was strong without violence, masculine without rage. He had shown her that she did not have to take for granted the history of men and women in her family. She could be different, too. She had borrowed money from her mother, hired a lawyer, and threw Frank out of the house. And from then on if someone tried to take advantage of her or failed to treat her with respect, she showed them the door. But she had never shown Euphenia and Eudoxia Wylie the door, even though after she paid her girls their $7 an hour each, it ended up costing Jane to clean their house. The Wylie sisters had been the first to hire Jane’s mother after Jane’s father died, and more than once their paltry $10 a week had been all that stood between Jane’s family and empty bellies. Even after her situation had improved, Jane’s mother had retained a soft spot all her life for the Wylie sisters. When she was a little girl, Jane had spent many an afternoon playing checkers with Miss Doxie, the more easygoing of the two, while her mother scrubbed out their icebox and swabbed Lysol around their kitchen floor.
Jane watched the two old women shuffle with their reclaimed booty out of the propped-open door, the floral fabric of their good Sunday dresses stretched across their flat rumps in a crosshatch of creases.
Maureen, Jane’s daughter, followed her gaze. Maureen’s face was puffed up even more than usual, her eyelids and the end of her nose as pink as a rabbit’s.
“Cheap old bitches,” Maureen said.
Jane shrugged.
Matt put his head down on the table.
“You need to throw up again?” Jane asked. The boy, like his father, had a weak stomach. Matt shook his head, his cheek still pressed to the table. “Good,” she said.
Matt had been following the limousine in John’s car—it had been hisjob to drive
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