with Maggie and they resumed walking. "Believe me, I barely gave it a thought. 'Well, good,' I told myself. 'Just one more thing to let go of.' " Maggie said, "I don't feel I'm letting go; I feel they're taking things away from me. My son's grown up and my daughter's leaving for college and they're talking at the nursing home about laying off some of the workers. It's something to do with the new state regulations-they're going to hire on more professionals and lay off people like me." "So? That job was always beneath you anyway," Serena said. "You were a straight-A student, remember? Or near about." "It is not beneath me, Serena; I love it. You sound just like my mother. I love that job!" "Then go back to school and get to be a professional yourself," Serena said.
Maggie gave up on her. She was too tired, all at once, to argue.
They turned in through a little gate, onto a flagstone path. Serena's house was newer than the others-raw brick, one story, modern and compact. Someone stood at the front window, drawing back a curtain to gaze out, but when the guests approached she dropped the curtain and vanished. She reappeared at the door, a buttressed and corseted woman in a stiff navy dress. "Oh, you poor thing!" she cried to Serena. "You come right on in. Everybody, come in! There's lots to eat and drink. Anyone want to freshen up?" Maggie did. She followed the woman's directions and passed through the living room, which was filled with heavy furniture in a wagon-wheel motif, and down a short hall to the bedroom. The decor seemed purely Max's doing: a bedspread patterned with multicolored license plates, a beer stein collection lining the bookshelf. On the bureau, a photo of Linda in cap and gown stood next to a bronze cowboy boot stuffed with pencils and gnawed plastic swizzle sticks. But someone had hung guest towels in the bathroom and set out a bowl of rosette-shaped soaps. Maggie washed up, using the bar of Ivory she found in a cabinet beneath the sink. She dried her hands on a grayish bath towel draped behind the shower curtain, and then she peered into the mirror. The walk had not done anything for her appearance. She tried to flatten her bangs down. She stood sideways to the mirror and sucked in her stomach. Meanwhile the Barley twins were discussing Linda's photograph: "Isn't it a pity she got Max's looks and not Serena's." Nat Abrams said, "Would this be the line for the John?" and Maggie called, "Just coming out." She emerged to find Ira waiting with Nat; now their topic was gas mileage. She returned to the living room. The guests were gathered in the dining alcove, where platters of food covered a table-sandwiches and cakes and drinks. Sissy Parton's husband was serving as bartender. Maggie recognized him by his violent pink hair, the color of freshly cut cedarwood. It hadn't dimmed in the slightest. She went over to him and said, "Hello, Michael." "Maggie Daley! Nice singing," he said. "But what became of Ira?" "Oh, well . . ." she said vaguely. "Could I have a gin and tonic, please?" He made her one, pouring the gin with a flourish. "I hate these affairs," he told her. "This is my second funeral this week." "Who else died?" Maggie asked.
"Oh, an old poker buddy. And last month my Aunt Linette, and the month before that ... I tell you, first I went to all my kids' school plays, and no sooner was I done with those than we start (>n this." A stranger came up and asked him for a Scotch. Maggie started circulating through the living room. She didn't hear much talk of Max. People were discussing the World Series, the prevalence of crime, the proper depth for tulip bulbs. Two women Maggie had never seen before were assembling a composite portrait of some couple they both knew. "He was a bit of a drinker," one said.
"Yes, but he adored her." "Oh, he'd never have managed without her." "Were you at that Easter brunch they gave?" "Was I there! The one with the chocolate centerpiece?" "It was a present from him to her, she
Maggie gave up on her. She was too tired, all at once, to argue.
They turned in through a little gate, onto a flagstone path. Serena's house was newer than the others-raw brick, one story, modern and compact. Someone stood at the front window, drawing back a curtain to gaze out, but when the guests approached she dropped the curtain and vanished. She reappeared at the door, a buttressed and corseted woman in a stiff navy dress. "Oh, you poor thing!" she cried to Serena. "You come right on in. Everybody, come in! There's lots to eat and drink. Anyone want to freshen up?" Maggie did. She followed the woman's directions and passed through the living room, which was filled with heavy furniture in a wagon-wheel motif, and down a short hall to the bedroom. The decor seemed purely Max's doing: a bedspread patterned with multicolored license plates, a beer stein collection lining the bookshelf. On the bureau, a photo of Linda in cap and gown stood next to a bronze cowboy boot stuffed with pencils and gnawed plastic swizzle sticks. But someone had hung guest towels in the bathroom and set out a bowl of rosette-shaped soaps. Maggie washed up, using the bar of Ivory she found in a cabinet beneath the sink. She dried her hands on a grayish bath towel draped behind the shower curtain, and then she peered into the mirror. The walk had not done anything for her appearance. She tried to flatten her bangs down. She stood sideways to the mirror and sucked in her stomach. Meanwhile the Barley twins were discussing Linda's photograph: "Isn't it a pity she got Max's looks and not Serena's." Nat Abrams said, "Would this be the line for the John?" and Maggie called, "Just coming out." She emerged to find Ira waiting with Nat; now their topic was gas mileage. She returned to the living room. The guests were gathered in the dining alcove, where platters of food covered a table-sandwiches and cakes and drinks. Sissy Parton's husband was serving as bartender. Maggie recognized him by his violent pink hair, the color of freshly cut cedarwood. It hadn't dimmed in the slightest. She went over to him and said, "Hello, Michael." "Maggie Daley! Nice singing," he said. "But what became of Ira?" "Oh, well . . ." she said vaguely. "Could I have a gin and tonic, please?" He made her one, pouring the gin with a flourish. "I hate these affairs," he told her. "This is my second funeral this week." "Who else died?" Maggie asked.
"Oh, an old poker buddy. And last month my Aunt Linette, and the month before that ... I tell you, first I went to all my kids' school plays, and no sooner was I done with those than we start (>n this." A stranger came up and asked him for a Scotch. Maggie started circulating through the living room. She didn't hear much talk of Max. People were discussing the World Series, the prevalence of crime, the proper depth for tulip bulbs. Two women Maggie had never seen before were assembling a composite portrait of some couple they both knew. "He was a bit of a drinker," one said.
"Yes, but he adored her." "Oh, he'd never have managed without her." "Were you at that Easter brunch they gave?" "Was I there! The one with the chocolate centerpiece?" "It was a present from him to her, she
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