Well Behaved Wives(48)

She still felt that way. Lillian surely didn’t want anyone poking around her and Peter’s marriage.

“Carrie was here today, and she was fine. She wasn’t upset. She didn’t ask for help. Where did she go after our class?”

Ruth’s shoulders slumped as she appeared to study the wood grain in the dining table, dragging a finger along the walnut. “She went home to make a brisket.”

“She went home to make dinner for her husband.” Lillian stood. “Which is what you should do, Ruth. And what I should get back to.” She looked toward the kitchen, then started for the front door. “If Carrie and her husband are going through a rough patch, the best thing you can do, if she asks, is help her figure out how to fix it. And I’d say brisket is a good start.”

Ruth walked through the door and turned back to Lillian. “How can you be so calm? Aren’t you worried?”

“About whether our dinner will overcook? Yes. About Carrie? No. And you shouldn’t be either.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because things like that don’t happen here.”

Ruth stepped onto the portico and Lillian shut the door.

After she left, Lillian turned around to find Sunny standing in the foyer with her hands on her hips, her head cocked to the side. She shook her head, picked up the teacup, and disappeared into the kitchen.

Lillian gathered her notebook and pencils from the dining room and straightened the chairs. There. No evidence the room had been used for anything other than for show, or the occasional appropriate gathering.

Peter would be home soon. Ruth sitting there, fidgeting like a child, insinuating herself into Carrie’s marriage, was the last thing Lillian wanted to explain, or lie about. She had to compose herself more after this unexpected visit. Ruth’s incredulous stare, her worried and shaky voice seemed to remain in the room. The remnants crawled over Lillian’s skin.

It was none of their business, yet there they had been, whispering about other people’s lives. Even if Carrie and her husband were having some newlywed strife, that’s all it was, nothing more. Ruth had no proof of anything. She was Shirley’s daughter-in-law, but that was no reason that Lillian should believe Ruth over Carrie.

Tink.

Clank.

Thud.

Lillian could hear Sunny setting the kitchen table, reminding her of the time. She should call the girls away from their homework, but frankly, she liked the quiet before Peter came home and dinner began. Sunny needed to catch the bus, and Lillian had kept her longer than usual today. Lillian poked her head into the kitchen.

“You can leave, Sunny,” she said, jerking her head to the side as if Sunny wouldn’t know where to find the door. She had already untied her apron and pulled it around to her front.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Sunny wrung the apron as if it had been washed and she’d been charged with removing all the water.

Lillian held out her hand and motioned for Sunny to hand her the apron. Lillian hung it on the back of the kitchen door that led to the garage. “Do I want to talk about what?”

“The Appelbaum girl.”

“I don’t know what you heard . . .”

“I heard enough.” Sunny walked around Lillian and to the coat closet. She slipped a bulky, dark-green sweater off a hanger. Though Lillian had never asked, the garment had been expertly handmade, by the looks of the stitching. Sunny pushed in one arm, then the other.

“I don’t want to be involved in any gossip. Gossip can destroy families,” Lillian said. Some things were better left unsaid. “And you shouldn’t either.”

Sunny buttoned her sweater and headed to the front door. “It didn’t sound like gossip to me.”

“Well, that’s all it was.” Lillian clucked her tongue as if adding auditory punctuation.

“If you change your mind . . .”

It was comforting to have Sunny in her life. If she had to grow up without a mother, at least she had her mother’s best friend. But this wasn’t something she could talk over with the help.

“Have a nice night.” Lillian wished she could travel back in time twenty minutes and ignore the knocks on her door—or better yet, that Ruth hadn’t stopped by. “That sort of thing doesn’t happen here,” she added.

Maybe. But something made Lillian’s stomach churn, though she tried to ignore it. It couldn’t be true—she’d have known. This was a good neighborhood.

“It happens everywhere,” Sunny said. She opened the door and turned back, her full pink lips set in a line, with no forthcoming smile. She stepped onto the portico, looked at Lillian, and raised her eyebrows. “Don’t forget to warm the rolls.”

Lillian puttered in the kitchen as if there was something to do besides set full serving plates onto the table. She couldn’t shake Ruth’s visit. Jewish men were supposed to be good husbands, but Lillian knew all men had their downsides. Carrie, a newlywed, would settle into the rhythm of being Mrs. Blum, the wife of a vice-principal. He worked with children, for God’s sake, and had been vetted by the school board, the PTA, and the superintendent.

As Lillian arranged slices of Sunny’s meat loaf into flower petals around a mound of mashed potatoes she’d whipped up herself and topped with chives, she said a silent prayer of gratitude for the abundance she sometimes took for granted.