possible sins and kept a scorecard on yourself.) But she didnât think of her transgressionsâand they were few enough, it seemed to herâas sins. Mistakes, rather. The only one that mattered was Betsy; somewhere she had steered her daughter wrong. Oh, if Will had only lived things would be different, Betsy would be married years back, and there would be grandchildren to see her casket lowered into the ground.
But if only Betsy was settled.⦠This sorrow drove out the thought of death and narrowed to an irritation: Judd. Betsyâs chosen lover. Violet flinched at the word but forced herself to use it. What else to call him? The Ann Landers column in the evening paper was full of facetious suggestions, but when you came right down to it a man and woman living together were lovers, pure and simple. (No, not pure, and probably not simple, either.) Or else they were husband and wife. In this case, better a lover than a husband; lovers by definition were temporary. But you never know. He is unfathomable, Violet thoughtâa deep one.
She forced on herself the possibility that he might, for whatever unsavory reason of his own, be persuaded to marry her daughter after allâa man with nothing pleasant or engaging or amiable about him, no politesse. Brought up down in Texas someplace by a fat woman with ten children and her front teeth out. Heâd told them that: âI was raised in foster homes. I spent six years with a woman named Bobbie-Dora Prince and her husband Ray Prince. Bobbie-Dora was fat and illiterate and just about toothless, but she had a heart of gold. At one time she had ten of us homeless brats. Her mother had her sterilized when she was sixteen because she thought Bobbie-Dora was mentally defectiveâsheâd already had two babies, both dead. But she was just a good, simple woman who loved kids. Ray was all right when he was sober, he used to play the banjo, but it was Bobbie-Dora who took care of us. I sent her Christmas and birthday cards until a couple of years ago when I heard she died. Actually, she was shot to death by a boy she took in.â
He told them that when he met the family for the first time. What was anyone to say? Especially the way he told it, so unemotional, and then he changed the subject, anyway. Betsy, sitting beside him with that moonstruck look as if where she really wanted to sit was at his feet.
He was successful enough, made a livingânot that his photographs were much to look at. All they did was show what was there and pretty it up a little bit. He specialized in long street vistas, the seedier and the more depressing the better, so he could make them seem quaint and nostalgic, with the sun on them and a hazy look he must get by shooting through gauze or Vaseline, like they did Doris Day in the movies. It wasnât even very effective; there wasnât an awful lot you could do with parking lots and farm shacks and broken-down storefronts, mostly in dusty southern towns best left forgotten. Heâd had a book of these published, but Violet couldnât imagine anyone buying it but his friendsâif he had any. Who wanted to look at such things, even through gauze?
She supposed his commercial photographs were better, the ones he got paid so handsomely for. Those buildings. And Betsy swore he did beautiful shots of children, though Violet found that hard to imagine, unless he bullied them into cute poses. She pictured him rough and shouting, pushing children around, and charging huge sums for the results. It seemed a shameâthat photography could pay so well. She was remembering Will and his sketchesâhis unsung talent. Now there was a craftsman, she thought (turning uneasily in bed as the pain touched her). Just a man and his pencil, no camera to do the work for him, no darkroom full of expensive gadgets.
She hadnât looked at Willâs sketches in years, couldnât bear to, and the years had covered them with their
But if only Betsy was settled.⦠This sorrow drove out the thought of death and narrowed to an irritation: Judd. Betsyâs chosen lover. Violet flinched at the word but forced herself to use it. What else to call him? The Ann Landers column in the evening paper was full of facetious suggestions, but when you came right down to it a man and woman living together were lovers, pure and simple. (No, not pure, and probably not simple, either.) Or else they were husband and wife. In this case, better a lover than a husband; lovers by definition were temporary. But you never know. He is unfathomable, Violet thoughtâa deep one.
She forced on herself the possibility that he might, for whatever unsavory reason of his own, be persuaded to marry her daughter after allâa man with nothing pleasant or engaging or amiable about him, no politesse. Brought up down in Texas someplace by a fat woman with ten children and her front teeth out. Heâd told them that: âI was raised in foster homes. I spent six years with a woman named Bobbie-Dora Prince and her husband Ray Prince. Bobbie-Dora was fat and illiterate and just about toothless, but she had a heart of gold. At one time she had ten of us homeless brats. Her mother had her sterilized when she was sixteen because she thought Bobbie-Dora was mentally defectiveâsheâd already had two babies, both dead. But she was just a good, simple woman who loved kids. Ray was all right when he was sober, he used to play the banjo, but it was Bobbie-Dora who took care of us. I sent her Christmas and birthday cards until a couple of years ago when I heard she died. Actually, she was shot to death by a boy she took in.â
He told them that when he met the family for the first time. What was anyone to say? Especially the way he told it, so unemotional, and then he changed the subject, anyway. Betsy, sitting beside him with that moonstruck look as if where she really wanted to sit was at his feet.
He was successful enough, made a livingânot that his photographs were much to look at. All they did was show what was there and pretty it up a little bit. He specialized in long street vistas, the seedier and the more depressing the better, so he could make them seem quaint and nostalgic, with the sun on them and a hazy look he must get by shooting through gauze or Vaseline, like they did Doris Day in the movies. It wasnât even very effective; there wasnât an awful lot you could do with parking lots and farm shacks and broken-down storefronts, mostly in dusty southern towns best left forgotten. Heâd had a book of these published, but Violet couldnât imagine anyone buying it but his friendsâif he had any. Who wanted to look at such things, even through gauze?
She supposed his commercial photographs were better, the ones he got paid so handsomely for. Those buildings. And Betsy swore he did beautiful shots of children, though Violet found that hard to imagine, unless he bullied them into cute poses. She pictured him rough and shouting, pushing children around, and charging huge sums for the results. It seemed a shameâthat photography could pay so well. She was remembering Will and his sketchesâhis unsung talent. Now there was a craftsman, she thought (turning uneasily in bed as the pain touched her). Just a man and his pencil, no camera to do the work for him, no darkroom full of expensive gadgets.
She hadnât looked at Willâs sketches in years, couldnât bear to, and the years had covered them with their
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