Keeping The Moon(20)

recovered. She said she could never look at the mail the same way again.”

“Wow,” I said.

“I know,” Morgan replied. “Mira never understood what all the fuss was about. But from then on, everyone already had their ideas

about her. You’re not rolling those tight enough.”

“What?” I said, startled.

“You need to pull that napkin tighter,” she said, pointing. “See how they’re kind of loose and floppy?”

“Oh,” I said. “Sorry.”

She watched me, eyes narrowed, until I shaped up. “But Mira didn’t even seem to notice that everyone was up in arms until they

asked her to leave. And poor Mr. Rooter. I don’t think anyone made eye contact with him for at least a year. The next week that

class was back to flowers and puppies again. My mom painted this awful lopsided basset hound that she hung in the bathroom. It was

really scary.”

I wasn’t quite sure what to say to that.

“So that was kind of how it started,” she went on. “But there were other things, too. Like when some parents wanted to ban some

books from the middle school. Mira freaked out about that, started showing up at school board meetings and making a real commotion.

It just made people nervous, I guess.”

“That’s a shame, though,” I said.

“Yeah, it is.” She picked up one of my sloppy rolls and redid it, pulling the napkin tight. “But that’s when they started

getting kind of nasty toward her. Like I said, this is a small town. It doesn’t take much to get a reputation.”

“Those women I heard today in the post office,” I said, softly, “one of them had this—”

“The baby,” she finished for me, and I nodded. “That’s Bea Williamson. The Williamsons are old Colby: country club, town

government, big mansion overlooking the sound. She’s got some kind of issue with Mira. I don’t know what it is.”

I wanted to tell her that sometimes there doesn’t even have to be a reason. I knew from experience that no matter how much you

turn things in your head, trying to make sense of them, some people just defy all logic.

“They were saying all these terrible things,” I said, finishing another silverware. “You know, about the way she is.”

“The way she is,” Morgan repeated flatly.

“Yeah, well,” I went on, not looking at her. I suddenly felt terrible for even bringing it up, as if I was Bea Williamson, just

that shallow. “The way she dresses and all.”

She absorbed this. “I don’t know,” she said, shrugging. “Mira’s always been a free spirit, as long as I’ve known her. She’s

just Mira.”

There was a crunching of gravel outside as the Rabbit pulled up, radio blasting. Isabel got out, wearing a pair of white

sunglasses, and slammed the door.

“Oh, look at this,” Morgan said loudly.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Isabel said, walking right past me, sunglasses still on, heading straight to the coffee machine.

“Where were you last night?”

Isabel pulled down the newly stocked container of filters and balanced it on her leg to pull one out. Then she slipped a bit,

knocking a few onto the floor, which she stepped over as she went to start the coffee.

This, of course, sent Morgan into a snit.

“Give me that!” she snapped, grabbing the container and putting it on the counter, reaching in to repair the damage. “I just did

these, Isabel.”

I rolled silverware, keeping my head down.

“Sorry,” Isabel said. The machine started gurgling, spitting out coffee, and she stretched and yawned while she watched.

“You know I was worried sick about you,” Morgan said, reaching down to pick up the spilled filters. Just for spite she knocked

Isabel’s knee with the dustpan, which she already had at the ready for cleanup.

“Ow.” Isabel stepped aside. “God, Morgan. You’re not my mom. You don’t need to be up nights waiting for me.”

“I didn’t even know where you were,” Morgan grumbled, busily sweeping. “You didn’t leave a note. You could have been—”

“Dead on the highway,” Isabel finished for her, rolling her eyes at me. I looked back, surprised at even being acknowledged.

“Yes!” Morgan stood, dumped the grounds in the trash, then put the brush and dustpan neatly back into its place. “Easily. In my

car, no less.”

Isabel slammed her hand on the counter. “Don’t start about the car, okay?”

“Well,” Morgan said, raising her voice, “you shouldn’t just take it like that with no notice, I mean, what if I had to be

someplace? Considering you didn’t tell me anything, I’d have no way of finding you …”

“Jesus, Morgan, if you weren’t such an old woman maybe I would tell you more!” Isabel yelled. “Living with you is like having

my grandmother breathing down my neck. So excuse me if I don’t share all my intimate details, okay?”

Morgan flinched, as if she’d been hit. Then she turned around and busied herself with the sugars and Sweet’n Lows, segregating