“At least we knew where they were,” I reason and am gratified when Anne concedes.
“True. Not knowing what happened to her has to be bad. But at some point, you accept and move on. Jack spends hours on the beachnear his boat. It’s like he wants to be ready in case he sees his mother in the waves—can you imagine, after twenty years? I feel sorry for the guy. He’s delusional. And he says Dad’s demented?Sheesh.”
“Jack can’t be all that demented if he’s a successful veterinarian.”
“Who told you he is?”
“You. How else would I know about Jack?”
“Margo,” Anne says. “She always liked him.”
I sigh. “Annie, Margo is living very happily with her husband and sons in Chicago. I doubt she’s keeping up with Jack. By the way, theSun Timesloves her. Her blog is huge. Do you ever read it?”
“No.”
It is a period meant to end the discussion, and even though I want to pursue it—to pursue anything that might bridge the gap between my sisters—this isn’t the time. “Jack said Dad was referring to Elizabeth. Does he ever do that when he’s with you?”
“No.”
“What about the house? Jack said it needed work.”
“I’m telling you, Mallory, Jack is as clueless as Dad. The house is fine. I have someone who does upkeep. He was in last week working on the plumbing, which, of course, good ole Jack Sab can’t see because no way would I let him in the house. My guy can do anything.” There is another murmur in the background, then Anne’s muffled, “Youcan,” before she tells me, “He’s a jack-of-all-trades, Dad would say.”
The murmur had been male, and unless my inference is all wrong, the male Anne is with is her jack-of-all trades in the flesh. That thought, paired with her breathlessness at the start of my call, brings a more worrisome one. When it comes to men, my sister Anne has notoriously poor taste.
Trying to tease, I say, “Okay, Annie, who’s there?”
“No one.”
“Bill,” comes the low voice, apparently with an ear to Anne’s phone as Joy’s ear is to mine.
“Bill who?” I ask.
“Houseman,” Anne says a little too innocently and adds, “Do you remember him?”
“BillyHouseman?” How can I not? Billy Houseman had been bad news around town from the time we were kids. “Anne,” I warn.
“He’s Bill now, new name, new leaf, new image. He’s a good guy, Mallory. But, hey, I gotta run.”
“Home to check on Dad?”
“Hint, hint,” Joy breathes.
Anne says, “In a bit. Don’t be a worrywart. I’m on top of this. Plus, you’re not here, your choice. So don’t criticize me, okay?”
She has a point there. But so do I. “I worry about you, Annie.”
“I’m fine, okay? Try trusting me for a change?” Billy—Bill—says something, but I can’t make it out, and then Anne says, “Talk soon. Bye,” and ends the call.
I stare at my phone, then at Joy. “Why is everyone hanging up on me tonight?”
“Maybe because you’re not going along, so now you know what it’s like for me,” she charges. “People want you to say what they want to hear, and when you don’t, they forget being nice.” Her brashness withers, face grows worried. “What if he does something? You know. Papa. With a gun.” Her green eyes have gone forest-dark.
“We don’t know that he has one.”
“Your guy said he did. Is he more reliable than Anne?”
“Most anyone is,” I remark and immediately feel guilt. “Anne means well. She just sees the world in a way that isn’t always realistic.”
