“Sometimes.”
“Well. I’m sorry to hear that.” Pauline thinks about taking Marilyn’s hand but it’s like a stranger’s hand, so small and curled up, and she’s frightened of it. Pauline pauses, then releases the question she really wants to ask. “Are you scared?”
“Sometimes,” says Marilyn. Pauline notices the answer shoots right out of her. “Sometimes if I wake in the night, you know? Sometimes I feel this—well, it’s a terror, I’d have to say. A black terror, squeezing on my heart like a fist.” She folds her small newly unfamiliar hands in front of her on the bed and looks at Pauline expectantly. For an instant she’s the old Marilyn, with the wide-leg jeans, the short-sleeve shirt tucked into them, keys to the pickupdangling from one hand.Let’s go,she used to say to Pauline.Come on, Polly, let’s see what’s happening.
“How’s it going at the Fitzgeralds’?” she asks.
“They treat me well enough,” says Pauline, still thinking about the terror squeezing at her cousin’s heart. “Really pretty good, actually. The pay is good, the hours are manageable. They still like my food, after all these years. It’s a heck of a lot more work with Louisa and the kids there all summer, I’ll tell you that. I never saw people make a mess quite so fast.”
“It’s a long time you’ve been working there.”
“Long time,” says Pauline. “Making their food. Keeping their secrets.” She waits for Marilyn to ask, and she thinks if she does she might just tell her.
But Marilyn is asleep. Pauline sits with her for several minutes more—so many, in fact, that she can see the way the light begins to change in the small front room, the sun edging its way past the center of the sky. It’s getting on toward midafternoon.
At long last she rises. She’ll tell Eddie to say her goodbyes for her. But as soon as she’s standing Marilyn is awake again, looking at Pauline with those small gray eyes.Come on, Polly, let’s see what’s happening.
“I have to go, honey,” says Pauline. “Billy will be coming home soon. I’ve got dinner to fix and a list of chores a mile long at my own house.”
“Oh, Polly.” Marilyn sighs. “I’m so glad you’re here. You’ll come back again, won’t you?”
“Of course I will. Every Wednesday, on my day off. And Eddie can call me if you need me sooner than that. They can manage without me at the Fitzgeralds’, if you need me. Okay? You tell him that. Anytime. Never mind, Lynnie. I’ll tell him myself, on my way out.”
“Bye for now,” says Marilyn. “See you soon.”
“Soon,” says Pauline. She stands for a long second, not quitesure exactly what to do from here, and then she leans over and touches her lips to the dry, cracked forehead belonging to Marilyn, her favorite cousin, this familiar stranger.
How happy Pauline is to get out in the fresh air, back in her car. Howaliveshe feels, in comparison to Marilyn, regardless of her joints that ache at the end of the day, the sagging skin at her elbows. How alive. She’s just pulling into her own driveway when her phone, lying on the passenger seat, begins to ring. The sound startles her. She never uses the cell phone. She has a limited plan, and only Annie Fitzgerald and her family members have the number.
“Hello?” she says. She’s always cautious when answering the cell phone, like it might explode if she says something wrong.
“Hey, Mama.”
“Nicole?”
“The one and only.” A hint of a laugh in her daughter’s voice.
“Well, well, well,” says Pauline.
“How’s everything? How’re you and Daddy? How’re the boys?” asks Nicole. She means her brothers; Cliff is two years older than Nicole and Will two years younger, both captaining their own boats now, Cliff in Owls Head and Will not so far away in South Thomaston.
“Fine,” says Pauline. “Good. Busy, you know. I’m just coming from seeing Marilyn.”
“Marilyn! How is she?”
“Not good,” says Pauline. “I’ll leave it there. Drains me to talk about it any more than that.” She thinks about Marilyn’s hands.
“Oh, well that’s a shame,” says Nicole. “That’s a real shame. I’m sorry, Mama.”
“Not your fault.”
“Well I know it isn’t my f—”
“How’s Nashville?” Pauline cuts her off, because she’s starting to feel the hot press of tears behind her eyes.
“Oh, it’s good, I guess. Let’s see. I’m going to see Chris Stapleton at the Ryman next week.”
“Well, la-di-da.”
