it to the reception—and had barely escaped getting into the collision. When the first sheriff’s car pulled up to the scene, they found him on the roof of the crushed limousine, trying to pound his way through the sunroof to get to his brother and Becca.
At the next table Iris sat, her face gray and crumpled, like a used tissue. Her mouth hung open, sagging at the corners, a thin string of saliva wavering between her lower lip and the bodice of her silk gown. Jane felt an unkind relief at seeing Iris’s face made ugly by grief. Usually the woman looked perfect, even when she wore her gardening clothes—a beat-up old straw hat, khaki shorts, and an old white shirt of her husband’s, tails hanging down her thighs. Jane would rush in, sweaty and dirty from a day driving the girls from one house to another, picking up a bottle of Windex if they were low, swapping vacuums when one blew out, getting down on her hands and knees to help scrub a floor if they were running behind, and there Iris would be, cool and elegant, sipping a cup of tea on her screen porch, a pile of papers on her lap, a pencil holding her mess of curly black hair in a knot on top of her head. She always offered Jane a cup and Jane always refused it. No need to sit through ten minutes of awkward chitchat with someone with whom you had nothing in common.
Now, though, with her makeup smeared, blurring her features, for once the woman looked worse than Jane. How could she allow herself to break down like that, in front of everybody? Jane had never understood this willingness on the part of these from-aways to peel up the scabs of their emotions and let everyone see their festering sores. They were like children that way. They had no shame and even less self-control.
Look at the girl, Ruthie, lying across her mother’s lap, her whole body shaking. Maureen indulged in no such melodrama; she had two daughters to stay strong for. Although Jane could not deny that Maureen and John had never got on. Maureen had picked and prodded at the boy his whole life, and yet John had never laid a hand on her. He gave as good as he got, but never physically, teasing her instead about everything from her weight to her cooking. Even as adults, when all this nonsense should have been behind them, they never managed to heal the rift; Maureen never tired of saying that John had his nose in the air ever since he got back from the yacht design course and started as an assistant designer at the yard instead of paying his dues at the bottom, like everyone else had to.
Jane had kept Matt out of the troubles among his siblings by taking him with her to work, just like her mother had done with her. After school and during the summers when he was a small boy she used to fill a basket with his G.I. Joes and Tonka trucks and deposit him at the kitchen table of whatever house she was cleaning. Before he was old enough to resent having to tag along with her, Maureen was out of the house and Jane could safely leave him alone with John. She’d felt bad about that, both for John, who spent most of his free time keeping an eye on his little brother, even dragging the boy along to his job at the yacht club in the summer, and for Matt, who got thrown out of his mother’s orbit so early. But there was no point in feeling guilty. She did what she had to do to survive. Her kids knew that and understood. Once her business had begun to see a decent if sporadic profit, they’d come to appreciate that the sacrifice was worth it. Jane had regularly bailed Maureen out; the girl never kept a job for longer than a couple of months, and the welfare check stretched only so far. Jane had helped pay for John’s design course, and she had made up the shortfall between Matt’s scholarship and the costs of his college tuition and expenses. Her kids had been appropriately grateful. They were well-mannered people. They knew how to behave.
Jane glanced over at the Copakens, still crying, the lot of them. Only
At the next table Iris sat, her face gray and crumpled, like a used tissue. Her mouth hung open, sagging at the corners, a thin string of saliva wavering between her lower lip and the bodice of her silk gown. Jane felt an unkind relief at seeing Iris’s face made ugly by grief. Usually the woman looked perfect, even when she wore her gardening clothes—a beat-up old straw hat, khaki shorts, and an old white shirt of her husband’s, tails hanging down her thighs. Jane would rush in, sweaty and dirty from a day driving the girls from one house to another, picking up a bottle of Windex if they were low, swapping vacuums when one blew out, getting down on her hands and knees to help scrub a floor if they were running behind, and there Iris would be, cool and elegant, sipping a cup of tea on her screen porch, a pile of papers on her lap, a pencil holding her mess of curly black hair in a knot on top of her head. She always offered Jane a cup and Jane always refused it. No need to sit through ten minutes of awkward chitchat with someone with whom you had nothing in common.
Now, though, with her makeup smeared, blurring her features, for once the woman looked worse than Jane. How could she allow herself to break down like that, in front of everybody? Jane had never understood this willingness on the part of these from-aways to peel up the scabs of their emotions and let everyone see their festering sores. They were like children that way. They had no shame and even less self-control.
Look at the girl, Ruthie, lying across her mother’s lap, her whole body shaking. Maureen indulged in no such melodrama; she had two daughters to stay strong for. Although Jane could not deny that Maureen and John had never got on. Maureen had picked and prodded at the boy his whole life, and yet John had never laid a hand on her. He gave as good as he got, but never physically, teasing her instead about everything from her weight to her cooking. Even as adults, when all this nonsense should have been behind them, they never managed to heal the rift; Maureen never tired of saying that John had his nose in the air ever since he got back from the yacht design course and started as an assistant designer at the yard instead of paying his dues at the bottom, like everyone else had to.
Jane had kept Matt out of the troubles among his siblings by taking him with her to work, just like her mother had done with her. After school and during the summers when he was a small boy she used to fill a basket with his G.I. Joes and Tonka trucks and deposit him at the kitchen table of whatever house she was cleaning. Before he was old enough to resent having to tag along with her, Maureen was out of the house and Jane could safely leave him alone with John. She’d felt bad about that, both for John, who spent most of his free time keeping an eye on his little brother, even dragging the boy along to his job at the yacht club in the summer, and for Matt, who got thrown out of his mother’s orbit so early. But there was no point in feeling guilty. She did what she had to do to survive. Her kids knew that and understood. Once her business had begun to see a decent if sporadic profit, they’d come to appreciate that the sacrifice was worth it. Jane had regularly bailed Maureen out; the girl never kept a job for longer than a couple of months, and the welfare check stretched only so far. Jane had helped pay for John’s design course, and she had made up the shortfall between Matt’s scholarship and the costs of his college tuition and expenses. Her kids had been appropriately grateful. They were well-mannered people. They knew how to behave.
Jane glanced over at the Copakens, still crying, the lot of them. Only
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