risen, my stitches throbbed, and I hadn’t slept much. I was worried about my conversation with Nick, upset about my father, shaken by Beatrice and her death by betting slips, haunted by my dream. I slumped back onto the folding chair, wanting comfort. But Susan resumed her knitting, stiff and distant. Her feelings were hurt; she was punishing me with silence and feigned indifference. I closed my raw eyes, saw the red glow of sunlight through my lids, and the red liquefied, became Beatrice’s blood.
I opened them, but too late. The memories had begun. Again I saw the draped body being lifted into the coroner’s wagon. And, for the hundredth time, I tried to sort out the events of the day before—the mess of blood, the fury in my father’s eyes, the flurry of commotion as the police arrived. Betting forms clumped, swirling and bloody, in my mind. Lord, what had my father gotten into?
The thoughts chilled me, even in the October sun. I shivered despite the warmth of the day. No, I wouldn’t dwell on yesterday. Would not revisit it. I’d watch a mini-league soccer game and enjoy myself with other parents.
“Okay. You might as well tell me the rest.” Apparently, Susan’s curiosity outweighed her pique. “What happened? Who was that woman—what was her name again? I saw it in the newspaper—”
The paper had covered the story briefly, on page five.
“Beatrice. Beatrice Kendall.”
And so, despite my resolve, I did revisit the day, after all. While the girls kicked and ran and the sun beamed, I sat beside Susan under a tree, gushing out events like water, or maybe like welled-up tears.
T EN
M Y TELLING WASN’T VERY coherent. Ever since I’d stepped onto my father’s porch, I’d been squelching memories, holding back feelings. Finally, as I began talking to Susan, I began to lose control. Events blurred with emotions, emerged out of sequence, but I blurted out the basics. Finding my father as he was cutting into Beatrice, struggling for the knife, realizing Molly had seen it all, calling the police. Facing Nick and his concern. Finding out about the betting slips in Beatrice’s throat. Hating myself for endangering the baby.
“Here.” When I finished talking, Susan took a sweating insulated mug from her cooler. “Have some iced tea.”
Her mothering instincts were resurfacing; she was forgiving me. I drank, felt cold, minty liquid slide down to my belly, wondered if the baby could feel it.
“Nick’s never really been mad at me before.” I couldn’t get him off my mind. His reserve.
“Oh, please, Zoe. What did you expect? A man learns that his future father-in-law is alive and living five miles away only because there’s a homicide in said father-in-law’s home? Of course he’s mad. You kept a big fat secret from him. You shut him out.”
I shrugged, not ready to explain that the secrecy hadn’t really been what upset him. Nearby, the bleachers erupted in a rousing cheer. Apparently, the Tigers had scored. We paused, scanning the field, instinctively looking for Molly and Emily, finding them unscathed.
When the playing resumed, Susan pushed hair out of her eyes. “Zoe, I have to say this: I don’t get it. Why didn’t you tell us? What’s the big deal?”
How was I supposed to answer her? How could I condense into a coherent sentence or two a lifetime of broken promises and disappointments, my mother’s fatally broken heart, my father’s incessant gambling, his compulsive lying, our gradual complete estrangement? For years, I hadn’t let myself think, much less talk about any of it. And now, with Susan, just as they had with Nick the night before, words failed me. Circuits locked down in my brain, refusing access to the unbearable, protecting me, rendering me speechless. I floundered.
“After my mother died, Dad was gone a lot. He couldn’t handle her death and didn’t have a clue about how to raise a kid. He hired a widowed woman to take care of me.”
“Hilda?” Susan
I opened them, but too late. The memories had begun. Again I saw the draped body being lifted into the coroner’s wagon. And, for the hundredth time, I tried to sort out the events of the day before—the mess of blood, the fury in my father’s eyes, the flurry of commotion as the police arrived. Betting forms clumped, swirling and bloody, in my mind. Lord, what had my father gotten into?
The thoughts chilled me, even in the October sun. I shivered despite the warmth of the day. No, I wouldn’t dwell on yesterday. Would not revisit it. I’d watch a mini-league soccer game and enjoy myself with other parents.
“Okay. You might as well tell me the rest.” Apparently, Susan’s curiosity outweighed her pique. “What happened? Who was that woman—what was her name again? I saw it in the newspaper—”
The paper had covered the story briefly, on page five.
“Beatrice. Beatrice Kendall.”
And so, despite my resolve, I did revisit the day, after all. While the girls kicked and ran and the sun beamed, I sat beside Susan under a tree, gushing out events like water, or maybe like welled-up tears.
T EN
M Y TELLING WASN’T VERY coherent. Ever since I’d stepped onto my father’s porch, I’d been squelching memories, holding back feelings. Finally, as I began talking to Susan, I began to lose control. Events blurred with emotions, emerged out of sequence, but I blurted out the basics. Finding my father as he was cutting into Beatrice, struggling for the knife, realizing Molly had seen it all, calling the police. Facing Nick and his concern. Finding out about the betting slips in Beatrice’s throat. Hating myself for endangering the baby.
“Here.” When I finished talking, Susan took a sweating insulated mug from her cooler. “Have some iced tea.”
Her mothering instincts were resurfacing; she was forgiving me. I drank, felt cold, minty liquid slide down to my belly, wondered if the baby could feel it.
“Nick’s never really been mad at me before.” I couldn’t get him off my mind. His reserve.
“Oh, please, Zoe. What did you expect? A man learns that his future father-in-law is alive and living five miles away only because there’s a homicide in said father-in-law’s home? Of course he’s mad. You kept a big fat secret from him. You shut him out.”
I shrugged, not ready to explain that the secrecy hadn’t really been what upset him. Nearby, the bleachers erupted in a rousing cheer. Apparently, the Tigers had scored. We paused, scanning the field, instinctively looking for Molly and Emily, finding them unscathed.
When the playing resumed, Susan pushed hair out of her eyes. “Zoe, I have to say this: I don’t get it. Why didn’t you tell us? What’s the big deal?”
How was I supposed to answer her? How could I condense into a coherent sentence or two a lifetime of broken promises and disappointments, my mother’s fatally broken heart, my father’s incessant gambling, his compulsive lying, our gradual complete estrangement? For years, I hadn’t let myself think, much less talk about any of it. And now, with Susan, just as they had with Nick the night before, words failed me. Circuits locked down in my brain, refusing access to the unbearable, protecting me, rendering me speechless. I floundered.
“After my mother died, Dad was gone a lot. He couldn’t handle her death and didn’t have a clue about how to raise a kid. He hired a widowed woman to take care of me.”
“Hilda?” Susan
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