Sin by Josephine Hart

worried.
    â€œWell, let’s start your education today. Come with us. Claude is a fascinating woman. She was in intelligence during the Second War.” Charles. The peacemaker.
    â€œAdd to her war efforts, three husbands—all dead, conveniently—and a considerable run of lovers.”
    â€œRuth, darling, ‘conveniently dead’ is not how I would describe three men I knew and liked.”
    â€œJoke, Mother. Joke.”
    This is not as I had planned.
    â€œTo be honest, apart from the fascination of Claude, I want to get some petrol for the car. Let me drive the three of you there.” Dominick rises.
    â€œBut, Charles, if Dominick is going it’s hardly necessary for you to go as well.” I tried. For time.
    â€œRuth. I’d love to see Claude. And I can direct Dominick.”
    He had escaped me.
    They left. Elizabeth headed towards the kitchen to talk to Alice about lunch. I walked after Stephen to the lake.
    â€œHello, Aunt Ruth.” A short silence.
    â€œDo you know I’m reading Madame Bovary at school.” He sought to impress me.
    â€œAnd what do you think of her?” I asked him.
    â€œWell, I think she was trapped … you know … within herself. No one set her free.”
    â€œThat’s very good, Stephen.” He blushed at me. I played, a little, with the look in his eyes.
    â€œI sometimes feel trapped … by my asthma.” Then, manly again, not wishing to seem as though he had looked for pity: “Do you know what Flaubert said when he was dying, Aunt Ruth?”
    I did. Best to let him tell me.
    â€œWhat did he say, Stephen?”
    â€œHe said: ‘I’m dying and that bitch Bovary will live forever.’” He laughed. Thrilled with himself.
    â€œSorry about the word ‘bitch,’ Aunt Ruth. Learned it from my French teacher.” More laughter. Whoops of laughter. Stephen had a wonderful laugh.
    He took my arm.
    â€œI think you’re amazing, Aunt Ruth.” He paused. Looked at the ground. “You’re really … really pretty. Aagh. That sounded … yuck. Sorry. Sorry, Aunt Ruth.” Suddenly, leaping in front of me.
    â€œI’m going to swim across the lake, Aunt Ruth. For you. Show you … how brave I can be. For you.”
    â€œDon’t be ridiculous, Stephen. Go on up to the sheds. Help William with his bike.” He looked at me. A question in his eyes. Then he shrugged. Kicked a few stones and said, “OK, Aunt Ruth, OK.”
    Bored, I turned away. And started to walk home. Lost in my contemplation of Charles. How to get him back.
    When I got to the house, Elizabeth was rolling the lemons to soften them. I chopped and scattered black olives onto the creamy pink and beige of the crabmeat. I chilled the wine and warmed the bread.
    I went to my room to prepare myself. Before my lunch. With Charles. Then I rejoined Elizabeth and Alice in the kitchen.
    I turned from the window, for a moment blinded by a sudden slanting ferocity of October sun. A man stood blocking the kitchen doorway. It was Ben. And he could not speak. I grabbed him. I shook him. I pushed him against the door. Useless to ask, “What happened?” To ask, “What is it?” A face contorted in fear and agony almost obliterates the need for words.
    Then a name. “Stephen … in the lake,” he gasped. “Asthma … attack.” I stopped for a second. Not William. Oh, God … in whom I do not believe … thank God.
    I am not a monster. With Elizabeth’s cries of, “Oh, no. No,” I ran to try to save her child.
    I ran across the lawn, through the garden, on and on through the park and then down to the lake.
    But someone had got there before me. William. My son. Trying desperately to save Stephen.
    From the top of the hill I saw them. Together in the water. They seemed to rise slowly. Gracefully. Like dancers. As though some great force propelled them through the