piano for an hour every morning in the living room of her yellow Victorian house. Something classical and melancholy. Afterward she moved back and forth past the tall, uncurtained downstairs windows, picking up books, dishes, clothing, whatever her daughter and husband had left behind in their rush to school or work. She walked her big black dog, got in and out of her silver station wagon. Her clothes were loose-fitting, tasteful, middle-aged: beige, gray, or black, brightened by a patterned scarf or an arty hand-knitted cardigan. In the afternoons, when it was time for Julia to return home from school, Margaret stood at the living room windows looking out toward the street until her daughter turtled up the sidewalk under her enormous red backpack.
Almost always, Margaret opened the front door even before Julia gained the steps, each time smiling and saying something that did not arrest Juliaâs passage, or even cause her to look up. Sometimes Margaret continued to stand in the doorway for another moment or two after Julia had disappeared inside, still smiling, looking into the street.
An ordinary yet oddly disquieting woman. That alert posture, the air of determined grace, like a retired member of a corps de ballet. Her eyes widened whenever anyone spoke to her, even children; often she clasped her hands together against her breastbone as if accepting compliments. Yet whenever Margaret felt herself unobserved, her expression became tremulous, ambiguous, but also attentive. She appeared . . . besieged. But by what? The Downings had money; Bill was a kindly-looking man (too interested in adolescent girls?); Margaret was slender and attractive, an ash blonde with lightly freckled skin, only faintly lined. But there was something about her anxiety, if thatâs what it was, that was unsettling. She seemed to be attending to something just beyond the range of human hearing, something normally audible only to dogs, or bats.
For Halloween the Downings had studded their lawn with plastic tombstones and hung a six-foot glow-in-the-dark plastic skeleton in the dogwood tree by their driveway. Margaret was in charge of most family activities (she had offered the fleece lap robe and folding nylon chair, for instance, and knew the correct time of the soccer game), but it was Bill who insisted on decorating for Halloween. Usually they didnât do much beyond carving a pumpkin, heâd informed Dr. Watkins last week as he was stringing up the skeleton on a sunny Sunday afternoon, but Julia wouldnât care about Halloween much longer and it was time to make the most of what they had left. The skeleton swayed in the breeze above their leaf-scattered yard, casting a long, narrow shadow.
7.
J ulia was playing her oboe upstairs. She had a band concert in two weeks, in which she had a short solo, and Margaret had been hounding her about practicing. No trick-or-treating on Friday, sheâd finally threatened, if Julia didnât practice half an hour a day. Julia and Hannah Melman were going trick-or-treating together. Supermodels this year. Feather boas and lip gloss and skirts the size of cocktail napkins. Margaret was insisting on pants. Why couldnât they be Gypsies or a pair of dice?
Margaret had just said all this to George Wechsler.
She and George had been in touch by e-mail since their walk in the woods so that Margaret could schedule his visit to her book club in March. But after the third dog had been poisoned, Margaret had e-mailed George: I donât think this is about getting rid of coyotes .
George e-mailed back: Neither do I . What weâre seeing is essentially a domestic fear campaign . I think town officials have their heads in the sand .
He said he intended to speak about the effect of the poisonings on the community at the upcoming hearing. In a brief reply that took her almost an hour to compose, Margaret said she agreed with him. She offered to listen to his speech if he wanted to
Almost always, Margaret opened the front door even before Julia gained the steps, each time smiling and saying something that did not arrest Juliaâs passage, or even cause her to look up. Sometimes Margaret continued to stand in the doorway for another moment or two after Julia had disappeared inside, still smiling, looking into the street.
An ordinary yet oddly disquieting woman. That alert posture, the air of determined grace, like a retired member of a corps de ballet. Her eyes widened whenever anyone spoke to her, even children; often she clasped her hands together against her breastbone as if accepting compliments. Yet whenever Margaret felt herself unobserved, her expression became tremulous, ambiguous, but also attentive. She appeared . . . besieged. But by what? The Downings had money; Bill was a kindly-looking man (too interested in adolescent girls?); Margaret was slender and attractive, an ash blonde with lightly freckled skin, only faintly lined. But there was something about her anxiety, if thatâs what it was, that was unsettling. She seemed to be attending to something just beyond the range of human hearing, something normally audible only to dogs, or bats.
For Halloween the Downings had studded their lawn with plastic tombstones and hung a six-foot glow-in-the-dark plastic skeleton in the dogwood tree by their driveway. Margaret was in charge of most family activities (she had offered the fleece lap robe and folding nylon chair, for instance, and knew the correct time of the soccer game), but it was Bill who insisted on decorating for Halloween. Usually they didnât do much beyond carving a pumpkin, heâd informed Dr. Watkins last week as he was stringing up the skeleton on a sunny Sunday afternoon, but Julia wouldnât care about Halloween much longer and it was time to make the most of what they had left. The skeleton swayed in the breeze above their leaf-scattered yard, casting a long, narrow shadow.
7.
J ulia was playing her oboe upstairs. She had a band concert in two weeks, in which she had a short solo, and Margaret had been hounding her about practicing. No trick-or-treating on Friday, sheâd finally threatened, if Julia didnât practice half an hour a day. Julia and Hannah Melman were going trick-or-treating together. Supermodels this year. Feather boas and lip gloss and skirts the size of cocktail napkins. Margaret was insisting on pants. Why couldnât they be Gypsies or a pair of dice?
Margaret had just said all this to George Wechsler.
She and George had been in touch by e-mail since their walk in the woods so that Margaret could schedule his visit to her book club in March. But after the third dog had been poisoned, Margaret had e-mailed George: I donât think this is about getting rid of coyotes .
George e-mailed back: Neither do I . What weâre seeing is essentially a domestic fear campaign . I think town officials have their heads in the sand .
He said he intended to speak about the effect of the poisonings on the community at the upcoming hearing. In a brief reply that took her almost an hour to compose, Margaret said she agreed with him. She offered to listen to his speech if he wanted to
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