True Places(52)
“Hot?”
“Oh boy.” Brynn got up, flopped onto the bed with her arms splayed, and spoke to the ceiling. “We have so much work to do, Iris. So much work.”
CHAPTER 23
All five of them climbed into the Navigator. Iris was in the middle seat in the back and Whit drove. Suzanne was unused to being a passenger in her own vehicle and fiddled with the seat controls. Whit turned on the radio, clicking through her presets twice before settling on a station.
She was skeptical of the wisdom of the entire family, including Iris, having dinner at her parents’ house, and had said as much to Tinsley and Anson, and to Whit. In fact, she was more than skeptical; she knew it was a terrible idea, especially since only two days had passed since Iris’s interrogation by the detective, two days during which Iris had been quiet and withdrawn, even for her. Perhaps Iris had assumed the reappearance of the detective was Suzanne’s idea, or that she had at least been complicit. Either way, Suzanne wouldn’t point a finger at Whit even though she was disappointed in him. Parents should present a united front even when it turned out they weren’t as united as they ought to be.
Instead Whit had minimized the aftermath of the interrogation and used the incident as evidence that Suzanne was coddling the girl. Iris needed to be challenged; otherwise, how would she ever adapt to the real world, as he put it? He had a point, but it wasn’t as if Suzanne had not been encouraging Iris to gradually try, if not embrace, the trappings of modern life. Iris had mastered several apps on her phone, although she failed to see the point of them, and could tolerate longer rides in the car and more people in stores and public places for short periods. She enjoyed the occasional television show if the topic was nature, geography, or science. Whit had suggested she try cartoons, but they did not hold Iris’s attention. She said nothing looked real and objected to animals acting like people.
“She’s not a little girl,” Suzanne had reminded him. And yet in many ways Iris was a little girl. There was so much she didn’t understand. But the longer Suzanne spent teaching her those things, the less important the lessons seemed. What happiness or insight into her own existence would Iris gain from navigating the aisles of a supermarket, mastering the controls of the microwave, or learning what an extended-care facility was? Iris, it seemed possible now, was hardly naive at all.
Suzanne worried about her anyway. Brynn, for reasons opaque to Suzanne, had suddenly softened to Iris. Suzanne hated herself for being suspicious and avoided being caught checking up on them. Reid had spent most of the last two days with Alex, which Suzanne couldn’t help but interpret as relinquishing Iris to Brynn, or even as a commentary on the whole family. They didn’t seem capable of being happy at the same time; that was the crux of it. Suzanne, the puppet master, was weary of untangling the strings and wondered if she’d done Iris any favors bringing her into the Blakemore puppet theater.
They had left Charlottesville behind. The landscape opened, revealing pastures, patches of woods, and farms with their backs to the hills. The setting sun shot rays of light between the trees. Suzanne shielded her eyes.
In truth, she didn’t feel much like a puppet master. She wasn’t in control, not anymore, not for a long time. Maybe the theater was in her believing she “ran” her family. She did things for her children, for their school, for their sports and activities, for the community, for Whit, for his business associates, for her mother and, indirectly, for her father, giving the illusion that she was the hub. Iris was one more spoke on the wheel. But the hub does not turn the wheel. The hub is the small, hard knot in the center, a place of convergence. The spokes were vectors, directed outward. She was in the middle, immobile, bearing the centripetal force.
No wonder she was exhausted. And frustrated.
Suzanne twisted in her seat to speak to Iris. “Are you feeling all right?”
The girl nodded. Brynn rolled her eyes without looking away from her phone.
They entered the paved drive through an ornate iron gate bordered by forsythia whose arching branches were heavy with blooms. A springhouse straddled a narrow creek choked with watercress. Hickory Hill stood above them, its Georgian stateliness commanding the broad hilltop. Two sets of dual fireplaces and windows oversize for the period spoke of a long history of deep pockets. A carriage house flanked the right side and an elegant red barn the left, both separated from the house by a wide lawn. Shade trees—two-hundred-year-old walnut and black oak—confirmed the estate’s longevity. It was beautiful, she had to admit.
“Suzanne’s childhood home, Iris.” Whit’s tone was reverent.
Iris did not respond. Suzanne could guess at her reaction and had no desire to see it. She was always embarrassed to bring people here but never more than today.
Anson greeted them at the door, gin in hand.
“Welcome! Find the place all right, did you?”
A dig about not visiting more often. Suzanne introduced Iris, then walked past him with the peonies she was carrying. “I’ll just bring these to Mother.”
Suzanne found Tinsley in the dining room arranging platters on the sideboard. She wore a full skirt covered in blue flowers and a crisp white shirt. Suzanne felt underdressed in jeans and her favorite black T-shirt, but that was nothing new.
“Suzanne.” Tinsley gave her a once-over.
“Hi, Mother. Everything looks delicious.” She noticed the table was set. “I’m surprised we’re not eating on the patio. It’s lovely out.”