After following the dialogue, back and forth, side to side, I’m on Jack. “Excuse me, but I don’t need—”
“Andyou’vegiven her those things all these years?” Paul fires back at him. “From what I understand, you’ve been AWOL for twenty.”
“It’s not—” I try but am overridden by Jack.
“We were young and hot-headed.”
“You were hot-headed. I can’t imagine Mallory ever was.”
“Jack and I—” have discussed this, I might have said had I been allowed to finish, but Jack is unstoppable.
“Which shows how little you know her. She’s independent. She does not need anything from you.”
When Paul mutters into my right ear, “Whatishe to you?” and Jack into my left, “What isheto you?” I’ve had enough. Jumping up from the bench, I raise both hands. My voice is low and fierce. “I don’t like fights. I’ve spent a lifetime avoiding them. If you…boys… need to argue, you can do it without me.”
Whipping around, I head for the house, then whip back. “But I will fight. I have a life and a daughter, and I won’t have either of you interfering with that. Got it?” Before they can speak, I leave.
I’m still simmering as I enter the house and spot Margo. Legs crossed, she sits on the living room sofa beside Dan, but there is nothing relaxed about her. Deeper in the room, Anne is stern in thewingback chair by the sunroom door, with Bill at a nearby window, looking out. Before I’ve taken two steps, all faces turn to me.
I glance from person to person. The silence here is nearly as forbidding as the first clod of dirt hitting mahogany this morning. Feeling a thread of hysteria, I ask in a high voice, “Have I missed something good?”
For a minute, there’s nothing. Then comes a rush of replies.
“Just sitting.”
“Exhausted.”
“Finally alone.”
I’m not sure who said what, but the occasional crushed cocktail napkin, partially eaten pastry, and used tumbler speak of guests who returned to the house from the cemetery.From the cemetery.Hard to believe the funeral was just today, so much has happened since.
And there is Dad’s chair, still with the markings of his body, waiting for him to return.
Something snaps in me. Are hollowed cushions really a tribute to the man? We need to find a way to move on.
Crossing the room, I reach for the loose cushion resting against the large back one—then abruptly pause. I look back at my sisters. “This needs to be fluffed. Can I?”
“No,” says Anne.
Margo says nothing, clearly wary of ruffling Anne—which makes me the monkey in the middle—which, ironically, I often was when we were kids in the back yard, playing the game. But I’m not about to push the issue. There are other ways to move on.
Unsure what the best one is, I sink into the sofa facing Margo and Dan. All of them do look exhausted, for which I possibly hold a little blame. “I’m sorry for deserting you.”
“It’s not like you were playing golf,” Margo remarks.
Anne is quiet. With the funeral over and the antipathy of Sunday night hovering again in the air, I expect belligerence from her, certainly distance. Looking at her, though, I have no clue what she’s thinking.
I wait for Margo to speak again. She’s our leader, isn’t she?
Or maybe we need silence. Yes, I tell myself. Silence. I sit through a minute or two, trying to think of Dad or Mom, trying to remember. Only the memories aren’t coming to me, not with so much to say in the here and now.
Clearing my throat, I glance at the men. “I’d like to talk with my sisters. Would it be—would you mind?”
They’re moving before I’m done, dying to get out. And why not? The air in here is grim.
Once we’re alone, I approach Anne. Crouching, I grab either side of her chair cushion. “I’m sorry, Annie—sorry for what I said about the gun. We were all upset and said things that were angry and unfair.”
She stares at me. Her hair is loose now, its waves tipped with the frizz we all know, but the burgundy streak that I’ve come to like seems more truculent than fun. I search her face for my little sister, but that little girl is grown.
