The words hang in the air.
“Loved,” I echo.
“As in,loved?” Anne asks.
“Was attracted to,” Margo confirms. Her voice is apologetic, but not in doubt about what Mom said. Rather, she regrets betraying a confidence.
I’m dumbstruck. Nothing in my mother’s manner ever led me to think she was drawn to Elizabeth in any way, the very least being physical. “Momsaidthat?”
Margo folds her arms, though whether to brace herself or show strength, I’m not sure. “She did.”
“That’scrazy,” Anne decides. “You say in one breath that Elizabeth slept with Dad and in the other that she and Mom were lovers?”
“I didn’t say they were lovers,” Margo snaps and lowers her voice. “Mom and I used to meet for dinner after work sometimes.That night, we were sitting at the bar waiting for a table. You know Mom and martinis. One’s her limit, but she had two. She went on about a co-worker who had just come out after raising four kids in a traditional marriage, and then, out of nowhere, there it was. She smiled when my jaw dropped, but she didn’t take back the words. She claimed she and Elizabeth never acted on it. Women didn’t back then. But the way she talked about Elizabeth that night, well, I could hear it. She was mesmerized. She loved that Elizabeth was independent and strong. She loved that Elizabeth had ambition.”
“Okay,” Anne argues, “maybe Elizabeth was bi, but Mom was straight. She was with Dad. And,” she looks hard at Margo, “with other men.”
“Hesays,” Margo counters.
“Elizabeth was with Richard,” I point out, trying to defuse the moment. “Being with men is what women did before it was okay to be gay.”
Anne turns on me. “You think Mom was?”
“I don’t know, Annie.”
“And Dad knows?”
“You tell us,” Margo suggests. “You’re the one who’s closest to him.” It’s a throwaway line. Obviously, if Dad had said something to Anne, she wouldn’t be so shocked.
“But shewaswith other men beside Dad,” Anne says.
“No proof of that,” my older sister warns.
I may be the proof. But Margo doesn’t know that, and this isn’t the time.
Anne waves an impatient hand. “Okay, so what’s the point here, Margo? If it’s true, what does it have to do with anything? Is there a scandal about this? Is something about to hit the news? Does Jack know his mother was gay? Did we ever see them together? And what in the hell does this have to do with Dad? Or with Elizabeth’s disappearance? Was Mom in touch with her after she vanished?” Anneasks, her dark green eyes more imploring than incensed. “Or did she just run off so she could be free? And if they loved each other, could we really have missed that?” I think of the photos in the attic, which may show something. But Anne isn’t done. “Mom and Elizabeth hated each other at the end.”
“Hell hath no fury,” I say, but Anne is staring at Margo.
“Do I remember wrong about that?”
“No,” Margo says. “But that was at the end. Before Mom agreed to marry Dad, she made him swear that he and Elizabeth were done. She believed it, until he got involved in Elizabeth’s business.”
“Involved how?” I ask, edgy now in a different way. None of the options Jack and I had tossed around included Tom’s active involvement.
“When it started to fail, he helped her save it.”
“How?” my younger sister challenges in disbelief.
“By cooking the books.”
Anne rolls her eyes and, having clearly reached her limit, raises both hands. Her voice is suddenly temperate, as if what we’re discussing is no longer real. “Okay, I have my own business to run. I’m going back inside. If you want to stay at the house, Margo, that’s fine, but if you want to make Dad out to be a criminal, forget it. He’s an old man who is losing his mind. What’s the point?” Foregoing an answer, she opens the screen door and leaves.
I watch until her mesh form dissolves into the kitchen, then eye Margo. “Do you really believe he committed fraud?”
“I have an easier time believing that, than believing Mom was gay,” she says. Now that it’s just me, she seems to have exhaled. “He was capable of it. Lots of his clients cooked the books. He would know how it’s done, and if he didn’t, someone else in the firm would. I don’t know the details, Mal. And maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s been gnawing at me for the longest time, but maybe Anne’s right. What’s the point?”
“The point,” I say, thinking of Jack, “is learning as much as we can about what happened that night. If Dad is the last living witness and he’s losing it fast, this is our last chance.”
