A Piece of the World(65)

Mary and Lora settle me into my chair in the kitchen and go back to the car for some foil-covered leftovers—“to tide you over for a few days,” Mary says. After carefully placing the dishes in the icebox under the floorboards, she gives me a small strained smile. “You’re all set?”

“I’m fine.”

“Well. Happy Fourth.”

“Happy Fourth,” Lora echoes.

I nod. None of us seem very happy.

After they leave, I scoop Lolly into my lap. I notice that the geraniums have wilted in their blue pot with the crack running up the side. The fire in the range has died out. The air is damp, rain is on the way. And all at once I have the peculiar sensation of watching myself from above, in the same spot where I have sat nearly every day for the past three decades. The geranium, the cracked pot, the cat in my lap, the fire that must be fed, rain on the horizon, the road to town in one direction and the St. George River in the other, stretching all the way to the sea.

I don’t know how much time has passed when I hear Al’s car crackling up the drive. The door creaking open, slamming shut. Footsteps to the kitchen stoop, the squeak of the screen door.

He flinches when he sees me. “Didn’t know you were in here.”

“Yep.”

“It’s dark.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Want me to light the lamp?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

He sighs. “Well, okay, then. Guess I’ll turn in.” He hangs his cap on the hook beside the door and turns to leave.

“She’s been married three times,” I say. My heart is thumping in my chest.

“What?”

“Did you know that?”

He inhales sharply. “I don’t think—”

“Did you know that, Al?”

“Yes, of course I know that.”

“And I hear she’s . . . ambitious.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Her motivations are questionable. I’m told.”

He winces. “Who told you that?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.” I know I’m hurting him, but I don’t care. I like the sharpness of the words. Each one of them a dagger. I want to wound him for wounding me.

“What ‘motivations’ could Estelle possibly have?” he says quietly, hands on his hips. “I have nothing to offer. Except myself.”

“She probably wants this house.”

“She doesn’t want this house!” he spits. “Nobody wants this house. I sure don’t.”

I feel like I’ve been slapped. “You can’t mean that. We have a responsibility. Our family . . . the Hathorns. Mother—”

“Mother is dead. To hell with the Hathorns. And damn it, we should’ve sold this house when we had the chance. It’s become a prison, can’t you see that? We’re inmates. Or maybe you’re the inmate and I’m the warden. I can’t do this anymore, Christie. I want a life. A life.” He slaps himself on the chest, a dull thwack. “Out there in the world.” He sweeps his arm toward the window.

I don’t think I’ve ever heard him string so many words together at a time. I hold my breath. Then I say, “I never knew you felt that way.”

“I didn’t used to. But now I see . . . I see that maybe things could be different for me. You know what that feels like, don’t you?”

Al has never spoken to me so directly. I think I’ve assumed he didn’t feel things as deeply as I do—but obviously I was wrong. “That was a long time ago. This is different.”

“Why? Because it’s not about you?”

I flinch. “No,” I snap. “Because we’re older. And this is where we belong.”

“No, it isn’t. It’s just where we ended up.”

His voice sounds choked. I think he might be crying. I’m crying too. “So what about me? I’ve spent my whole life cooking and washing and cleaning for this family. And now you’d just—throw me out with the trash?”

“Come on,” he says. “Of course not. You’d be welcome with me wherever I go, you know that.”

“I’m not a charity case.”

“I never said that.”

“This is my home, Alvaro. And yours.”

“Christina . . .” His voice is weary, leaden. By the time I realize he isn’t going to say anything further, he has already left the room.

IN THE MORNING I wake to silence. My first thought is: Al is gone. But when I look out the window, I see the Ford in the same place where he parked it last night. I go about my morning routine as usual, and as usual Al comes in from the barn for the noonday meal. He doesn’t say a word until he clears his plate, and then he says thank you and heads back outside. As I’m setting newly churned butter in its earthenware pot in the shed, my eye is drawn to the dory, high in the rafters.

We should’ve sold this house when we had the chance. You’re the inmate and I’m the warden. The words hang in the air between us. But as long as neither of us mentions them, we can pretend they were never said.

For the next few months, each morning when I wake up, I think he’ll be gone.

Al doesn’t bring Estelle to the house again. He doesn’t speak her name. One day Sadie casually mentions that she heard Estelle met a man with two kids and moved to Rockland.