bet CNN already knew about it, had maybe aired a bulletin, if Celia rated that high.
I decided not to turn on the radio. I didn’t want to hear anything about the murder, I didn’t want to listen to any music, I didn’t want to know the weather report. I just wanted to get out of here. With Angel helping me avoid cars and people, all going places they shouldn’t go, I finally drove out of the area. I made a huge effort to obey every traffic rule. I was so grateful to Arthur for letting us leave, I was determined to be no trouble at all.
Once I got away from the town center, traffic thinned out dramatically. I took the county highway that led northeast out of town, past the very nice suburb where my mother and her husband live. My house is about a mile out of town, on a road that turns into farms pretty much right after it leaves the city limits.
The house waited for me, silent and dim, perfectly clean.
Angel hadn’t been out to the house in a while. She looked around, a curious expression on her narrow face. She moved down the hall with her quiet grace, looking from side to side like a cat exploring unfamiliar territory.
“Geez,” she said finally, “I want to kick the walls just to make a scuff mark. How can you live like this?”
“I don’t know how to live any other way,” I said. And it was the first time that way struck me as odd. I stood in the middle of the long hall that runs from the front door and past the stairs down to a closet door, looked to the left into the formal living room, and I felt weirdly isolated.
I stood, in my orange knit dress, feeling the coolness of the house, the shadows cast by the bright morning sun streaming in the windows, the sudden lack of contrast when clouds floated across the sun. I felt time passing.
“Do you ever have company?” she asked.
“No. At least, very seldom. But you know,” I said, pondering this idea through, “that’s not actually my fault. People don’t come to see me. Even when I say, ‘Come by and see me,’ they don’t.”
“You need to move back into town,” Angel said, her voice flat and definite.
I gaped at her. “Like that would be easy! Like moving isn’t incredibly stressful!”
She cocked her head, her blond braid trailing to one side.
“Is living like this relaxing ? This place is a tomb.”
I stared at her, shocked.
She was absolutely right.
It was the second revelatory moment I’d had in two days.
“I would help,” she offered. “I could bring Joan’s playpen and set it up, and she’d be good for a while.”
“But this house,” I said, feeling my tears spring up. “I was so happy here. Martin bought it for me.”
“You think Martin would like you being here by yourself? You think Martin would ever live in a place this . . . dead?”
That cut me to the quick. Martin had surrounded himself with energy, with projects, with life. I felt instantly that I had failed him, yet again.
“You didn’t die with Martin,” Angel said brutally.
I gasped in surprise at the way her thought chimed in on what I was thinking. “This house has so many memories,” I said feebly.
“You have the memories inside you. This house is stifling you. It’s too big, it’s out of the way, and it’s . . . unwelcoming.”
“Enough,” I said.
Wisely, Angel did keep silent. We went to the kitchen, and I got out two glasses and filled them with ice while Angel got the pitcher of tea out of the refrigerator. Angel poured, and I put a package of Sweet ‘N Low in mine.
In a desperate way, it hurt to even consider leaving this house. I had sure had enough hurting. But, with very little inner debate, I found I was thinking that Angel was right.
To effect such a change seemed incredibly daunting. I began to break it down into steps.
I would have to find a house in town. That would be easy, with a mother in real estate.
I’d have to have everything in this house packed and ready to move. I could afford to have that done for
I decided not to turn on the radio. I didn’t want to hear anything about the murder, I didn’t want to listen to any music, I didn’t want to know the weather report. I just wanted to get out of here. With Angel helping me avoid cars and people, all going places they shouldn’t go, I finally drove out of the area. I made a huge effort to obey every traffic rule. I was so grateful to Arthur for letting us leave, I was determined to be no trouble at all.
Once I got away from the town center, traffic thinned out dramatically. I took the county highway that led northeast out of town, past the very nice suburb where my mother and her husband live. My house is about a mile out of town, on a road that turns into farms pretty much right after it leaves the city limits.
The house waited for me, silent and dim, perfectly clean.
Angel hadn’t been out to the house in a while. She looked around, a curious expression on her narrow face. She moved down the hall with her quiet grace, looking from side to side like a cat exploring unfamiliar territory.
“Geez,” she said finally, “I want to kick the walls just to make a scuff mark. How can you live like this?”
“I don’t know how to live any other way,” I said. And it was the first time that way struck me as odd. I stood in the middle of the long hall that runs from the front door and past the stairs down to a closet door, looked to the left into the formal living room, and I felt weirdly isolated.
I stood, in my orange knit dress, feeling the coolness of the house, the shadows cast by the bright morning sun streaming in the windows, the sudden lack of contrast when clouds floated across the sun. I felt time passing.
“Do you ever have company?” she asked.
“No. At least, very seldom. But you know,” I said, pondering this idea through, “that’s not actually my fault. People don’t come to see me. Even when I say, ‘Come by and see me,’ they don’t.”
“You need to move back into town,” Angel said, her voice flat and definite.
I gaped at her. “Like that would be easy! Like moving isn’t incredibly stressful!”
She cocked her head, her blond braid trailing to one side.
“Is living like this relaxing ? This place is a tomb.”
I stared at her, shocked.
She was absolutely right.
It was the second revelatory moment I’d had in two days.
“I would help,” she offered. “I could bring Joan’s playpen and set it up, and she’d be good for a while.”
“But this house,” I said, feeling my tears spring up. “I was so happy here. Martin bought it for me.”
“You think Martin would like you being here by yourself? You think Martin would ever live in a place this . . . dead?”
That cut me to the quick. Martin had surrounded himself with energy, with projects, with life. I felt instantly that I had failed him, yet again.
“You didn’t die with Martin,” Angel said brutally.
I gasped in surprise at the way her thought chimed in on what I was thinking. “This house has so many memories,” I said feebly.
“You have the memories inside you. This house is stifling you. It’s too big, it’s out of the way, and it’s . . . unwelcoming.”
“Enough,” I said.
Wisely, Angel did keep silent. We went to the kitchen, and I got out two glasses and filled them with ice while Angel got the pitcher of tea out of the refrigerator. Angel poured, and I put a package of Sweet ‘N Low in mine.
In a desperate way, it hurt to even consider leaving this house. I had sure had enough hurting. But, with very little inner debate, I found I was thinking that Angel was right.
To effect such a change seemed incredibly daunting. I began to break it down into steps.
I would have to find a house in town. That would be easy, with a mother in real estate.
I’d have to have everything in this house packed and ready to move. I could afford to have that done for
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