“And the guy?”
“Jack was always honest.” Brutally so. Which is why he and I haven’t talked in twenty years. Our parting was brutally bad.
“So if Papa has a gun,” my daughter says, “there could be trouble. We need to go there, Mom.”
I go there all the time. Thundering waves are a soundtrack for every dream I have. The thought ofphysicallygoing there, though, gives me heartburn.
Setting off for the kitchen, I call, “When? This is not a good time to travel.”
Joy is close behind. “Why not?”
“You have finals, for one thing, and for another, I have work.” I run the sink faucet hot. Dinner had been takeout of a veggie quiche, whose melt-over had burned onto the rim of the pie plate in which I’d heated it. I’d left it soaking, knowing it would be a hassle to clean, but I’m suddenly in the mood to scrub.
Joy leans into the counter, which means very close to me in our tiny kitchen. She is barely an inch shorter than my five-six, though her curls more than make up the difference. Those curls were damp when we settled in at the window, but air-drying, they’ve grown bigger by the minute. Seeming fragile beneath them, she says, “School finishes next week—”
“—and your internship starts right after that.”
“Scooping kitty litter in a cat café,” she drones.
I glance her way in surprise. “I thought you wanted that job.”
“I do, but it’s only a couple of hours a day, no pay—”
“Of course, no pay, you’re only thirteen, and what about Willard?” Her piano teacher.
“He’ll be away, too, remember? This is perfect, Mom. No school, no piano, no need for me to be at the cat café exactly next week. You cut back on bookings to spend time with me. Why don’t we spend it together with your family in Rhode Island?”
I pump hard at the soap dispenser. “I’ve explained to you why we don’t.”
“Conflicting loyalties, I know, you want to stay neutral. But how can we not do anything? He’s your father, and what if he does have a gun? I mean, Anne doesn’t see every little thing he does; she was out of the house just now, right? Besides, he could have bought one online and been home alone when it was delivered, so she wouldn’t know. Guns kill, Mom. He could kill himself or kill Anne or kill thehousekeeper?”
I shoot her a punishing look. She’s almost as bad as Annesometimes—imagining things likewhat if I locked him in and there was a fire in the house?
I work at a burnt-on piece of crust with the tough side of the sponge, needing suds but getting few. “Do youseehow ineffective this dish detergent is?”
That quickly, Joy is the appeaser. “But we’re doing a good thing here, Mom. See how compact the bottle is, no wasted plastic—and not tested on animals? If everyone on the planet signed on, the world would be a better place.”
I send a dry thanks to the head of her school, who, since taking the job two years ago, had made The Environment as much a part of the curriculum as Singapore math and Robotics—and hey, I’m all for going green. I recycle. I refill my reusable water bottle. I pay bills online. There are times, though when being PC sucks.
“Right,” I say and drop the sponge. After refilling the pie plate with hot water, I wipe my hands on the linen towel. Not paper. Linen.
“What about Papa and his gun?” Joy asks, following me into the hall.
At our closet laundry room, I open the dryer. “We don’t know that he has one.” I begin sorting still-warm clothes into a double basket, Joy’s on the left, mine on the right.
“But what if he does? What if he takes it into town and starts shooting the place up? Or decides to kill your neighbor? What if he did kill Elizabeth—”
“He did not.” I may have issues with my father. I may question his compliance with the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but. But I refuse to believe he is capable of murder.
“But what if he has a gunnow? What if heusesit?”
“Don’t ask that. Don’t even think it.”
Joy takes over the sorting, but she doesn’t back down—she rarely does, which is both her greatest strength and her worst curse, in part because she is logical enough to be annoying as hell. I should leave her to the job and walk away. But the truth is, I want her opinion.
Actually, I need it. She’s all I have.
“He’s your father,” she says now. “And Anne’s your sister. And that house is where you grew up. Not all the memories are bad, some are good—like hide-and-seek in your mother’s potting shed—so why can’t you focus on the good stuff?” She’s sounding younger as she drops the last of the items in the basket and turns wounded eyes on me. “I’ve never been there, Mom. It’s less than three hours away, and I’ve never been there? That’s embarrassing. And even if all of the above wasn’t true, it’s thebeach? Welovethe beach.”
