much.”
“I had no idea you two were so close!”
Pauline kept her eyes fixed on Karen.
“Has he told you why his wife left?” Mimi asked.
“Goodness, no!” Pauline said. She bent to rummage through her beach bag. “We never even touch on it. Poor man, it’s the last thing in the world he wants to talk about.”
She raised her head from the beach bag to find both women studying her. Mimi’s mouth was a small, pursed O. Joan had removed her dark glasses and was thoughtfully chewing an earpiece, her naked-looking eyes narrowed and assessing.
“I just think it’s so mysterious,” Mimi said finally. “They were such an attractive couple! Alex all dark and handsome and witty, Adelaide that silver-blond ice-goddess type. I never once saw them fighting. Did you?”
“They didn’t have any children, though,” Joan told her. “Maybe that was the problem.”
Pauline said, “Well, but—” Then she stopped herself. They’d be aghast if she told them she wasn’t so very sure that children really did improve a marriage.
“And then one night,” Mimi continued in a bemused, storytelling tone, “he comes home from work and she’s gone. He’s forced to ask the neighbors whether anyone has seen her. Oh! He must have felt so humiliated! That it was Laura Brown—a stranger, near about—who had to tell him his wife had decided to leave him.”
“And even Laura didn’t know why,” Joan put in. “She said Adelaide had just rung her doorbell and handed over her house keys, told her she was moving back to her parents’ place in Ohio.”
“So mysterious! ” Mimi said.
They looked expectantly at Pauline. But Pauline just called, “Here you go, sweetie!” and held up a box of animal crackers.
By the time they left the pool the sun was directly overhead, beating down on their faces like a sheet of blazing metal, and the children were pink-skinned and sweaty and cross. Karen threw a stiff-legged, buckle-backed tantrum in her stroller. George didn’t see why he had to go home when Buddy Derby got to stay. “Well, maybe Buddy Derby doesn’t have a grandma at home waiting for her lunch,” Pauline snapped. Her bra straps were hurting her shoulders where they’d gotten sunburned. Her shoes—white ballerina flats, bought on sale the previous weekend—were scraping blisters on her heels. The thought of fixing lunch in a kitchen still littered with breakfast things, with dirty dishes and food-stained bibs and picture books and parts of toys, filled her with pure despair.
Abruptly, she took a left off Beverly onto Candlestick Lane.
Lindy said, “This is not the way to go home!”
Pauline didn’t answer. (She was constantly surprised by Lindy’s disconcerting awareness. Neither of the other two gave her that sense she was under a microscope.)
“Why are we taking this street, Mama?”
“I thought you might like a change of scenery,” Pauline told her.
“I don’t care about the scenery! I want to go home. I want my lunch.”
“Well, I care. I’m tired of seeing the same old things day after day,” Pauline said. And then she started humming, pushing the stroller more slowly and gazing ostentatiously left and right to admire the view. Which was not, as a matter of fact, any different from Winding Way’s. Same low-slung ranch houses, lawns that ran into each other like one big golf green, slender saplings tied to stakes with strips of black rubber. George bobbed ahead at an uneven gait, avoiding all cracks in the sidewalk. Lindy lagged behind. Pauline could hear her scuffing the toes of her shoes as she’d been told a million times not to.
Toward the end of the second block, at the house before Alex Barrow’s house, Pauline came to a stop. She smiled at a woman who was weeding a bed of petunias. “Pretty flowers!” she called.
“Well, thanks.”
“Lovely day to be doing this!”
“Yes, it is nice.”
The woman pulled another weed but then paused and sat back on her heels, perhaps
“I had no idea you two were so close!”
Pauline kept her eyes fixed on Karen.
“Has he told you why his wife left?” Mimi asked.
“Goodness, no!” Pauline said. She bent to rummage through her beach bag. “We never even touch on it. Poor man, it’s the last thing in the world he wants to talk about.”
She raised her head from the beach bag to find both women studying her. Mimi’s mouth was a small, pursed O. Joan had removed her dark glasses and was thoughtfully chewing an earpiece, her naked-looking eyes narrowed and assessing.
“I just think it’s so mysterious,” Mimi said finally. “They were such an attractive couple! Alex all dark and handsome and witty, Adelaide that silver-blond ice-goddess type. I never once saw them fighting. Did you?”
“They didn’t have any children, though,” Joan told her. “Maybe that was the problem.”
Pauline said, “Well, but—” Then she stopped herself. They’d be aghast if she told them she wasn’t so very sure that children really did improve a marriage.
“And then one night,” Mimi continued in a bemused, storytelling tone, “he comes home from work and she’s gone. He’s forced to ask the neighbors whether anyone has seen her. Oh! He must have felt so humiliated! That it was Laura Brown—a stranger, near about—who had to tell him his wife had decided to leave him.”
“And even Laura didn’t know why,” Joan put in. “She said Adelaide had just rung her doorbell and handed over her house keys, told her she was moving back to her parents’ place in Ohio.”
“So mysterious! ” Mimi said.
They looked expectantly at Pauline. But Pauline just called, “Here you go, sweetie!” and held up a box of animal crackers.
By the time they left the pool the sun was directly overhead, beating down on their faces like a sheet of blazing metal, and the children were pink-skinned and sweaty and cross. Karen threw a stiff-legged, buckle-backed tantrum in her stroller. George didn’t see why he had to go home when Buddy Derby got to stay. “Well, maybe Buddy Derby doesn’t have a grandma at home waiting for her lunch,” Pauline snapped. Her bra straps were hurting her shoulders where they’d gotten sunburned. Her shoes—white ballerina flats, bought on sale the previous weekend—were scraping blisters on her heels. The thought of fixing lunch in a kitchen still littered with breakfast things, with dirty dishes and food-stained bibs and picture books and parts of toys, filled her with pure despair.
Abruptly, she took a left off Beverly onto Candlestick Lane.
Lindy said, “This is not the way to go home!”
Pauline didn’t answer. (She was constantly surprised by Lindy’s disconcerting awareness. Neither of the other two gave her that sense she was under a microscope.)
“Why are we taking this street, Mama?”
“I thought you might like a change of scenery,” Pauline told her.
“I don’t care about the scenery! I want to go home. I want my lunch.”
“Well, I care. I’m tired of seeing the same old things day after day,” Pauline said. And then she started humming, pushing the stroller more slowly and gazing ostentatiously left and right to admire the view. Which was not, as a matter of fact, any different from Winding Way’s. Same low-slung ranch houses, lawns that ran into each other like one big golf green, slender saplings tied to stakes with strips of black rubber. George bobbed ahead at an uneven gait, avoiding all cracks in the sidewalk. Lindy lagged behind. Pauline could hear her scuffing the toes of her shoes as she’d been told a million times not to.
Toward the end of the second block, at the house before Alex Barrow’s house, Pauline came to a stop. She smiled at a woman who was weeding a bed of petunias. “Pretty flowers!” she called.
“Well, thanks.”
“Lovely day to be doing this!”
“Yes, it is nice.”
The woman pulled another weed but then paused and sat back on her heels, perhaps
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