Well Behaved Wives(79)

The table got quiet for a moment. Ruth wondered exactly how much Asher knew about his mother’s history and his father’s involvement. She suspected it wasn’t much, if anything at all, but Ruth knew she must never ask him. He would have to volunteer the information himself.

“That’s admirable,” Shirley said.

“Someone needs to stick up for those who need help,” Leon said.

“You’re right,” Ruth said, giving him a conspiratorial look. “Thanks.”

The next day, after Leon and Asher had left for work, Ruth barreled into the kitchen and slapped a paper down on the counter in front of Shirley.

“It’s a list of names and phone numbers. My father and two of my brothers want to help.”

Shirley raised an eyebrow.

“What? I didn’t tell them anything I shouldn’t have.”

Shirley seemed to be waiting for more.

“Okay, when I spoke to them last night, they wanted to be sure I was happy. Quizzed me about Asher, about you and Leon, about how you were treating me.”

Shirley looked taken aback. “Really?”

“Relax. I told them it was for my friends at Legal Aid in New York. They knew I volunteered there. They don’t think anything of it now. They want to help. It makes them feel closer to me to do something together, even though I’m a hundred miles away.”

“In that case, great. I have a list as well.” Shirley looked pleased as she set a cup of coffee in front of Ruth. “Just saccharin, right?”

Ruth nodded at the kindness.

By ten o’clock, Ruth, Shirley, Lillian, and Irene were sitting around the map-draped dining room table drinking coffee and eating Shirley’s apricot schnecken. Shirley and Lillian were writing lists of names and addresses alphabetically and geographically, marking the map with Xs. Ruth and Irene rose and began folding baby clothes, diapers, and blankets, smoothing out maternity dresses, ready to pack in a donated steamer trunk, together with bath essentials, books, and a few tchotchkes to personalize a strange place—a miniature Liberty Bell, a C-shaped brass paperweight, and the silver tray from Ruth and Asher’s dresser. The trunk would be sent ahead to wherever Carrie was going to be living.

“Why do men get away with bad behavior just because they’re men?” Ruth said as she folded cloth diapers into squares. “We should have been able to call the police for Carrie and know she’d be safe.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Shirley said.

“It should,” Ruth said. “It could.” Someone needed to change that.

“I agree,” Lillian said. “I’m embarrassed to say I’ve been part of the problem.”

Ruth looked over at her.

“I didn’t believe what you said, until I saw Carrie. I should have known better. I should have believed you, Ruth. I’m sorry for how I treated you.”

Ruth nodded. Somehow her vindication wasn’t as sweet as she’d expected, knowing there were few people who believed beaten women at all, and few laws that would protect them.

“I, of all people, should have listened,” Lillian said, and paused before seeming to come to a decision. “Apparently . . . my father burned my mother with a cigar. And who knows what else he did.”

A collective gasp seemed to pull all the air from the room.

“You never said. I guess we all have family secrets,” Ruth said.

Of all the people, Lillian.

“I only just found out. From my mother,” Lillian said.

“You have a mother?” Irene’s absurd question refilled the room with normalcy and titters of inappropriate laughter. Even Lillian’s. Abashed, Irene clarified. “I meant living.”

Shirley stood behind Lillian and patted her shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

“I was a child. I didn’t know.”

“How did you find out?” Shirley asked, moving around to face Lillian and grasping her hands.

“Admittance records.”

“Admittance?” Ruth asked.

Lillian sighed. “For the last twenty-four years my mother has been in a hospital.” She looked at the floor. “A mental hospital.”

“Oh, how awful for you,” Irene said.

Yes, Ruth thought. Her own mother had died. How must it feel to have a mother who was alive, yet unavailable? To have your mother be a living, breathing woman you couldn’t have over for dinner or talk to about your problems? Ruth suddenly felt a new kinship toward Lillian and was reminded that she was more than an etiquette maven.

Lillian looked up. “Well, I won’t be embarrassed or ashamed anymore. She’s at Friends. They treat her very well and take good care of her.”

Ruth’s previous anger at Lillian for not listening when she told her about Carrie was replaced by deep compassion. How the sight of Carrie’s injuries must have pained her—at a different level than it did Ruth and Irene. All the shame surrounding mental institutions, the horror of having a brutal father. And Ruth knew all too well what it was like to live without a mother.

“And your husband knows?” Irene asked.

“Of course Peter knows,” Shirley said. “Right?”

“It’s not like keeping a secret is below our moral benchmark,” Ruth said. The girls chuckled.