wondering if some further exchange was expected of her. “All in all, it’s been nice weather this whole summer,” she offered.
“Oh, it has, hasn’t it?”
Reluctantly, Pauline resumed walking. She wheeled the stroller inch by inch past Alex’s house—his brick-and-flagstone Plan C, the Maison Deluxe. “This place has a built-in grill on the patio out back,” she told Lindy. “Solid brick, with a cast-iron grate.”
Lindy peered at the house. “How do you know that?” she asked.
“We went there once for cocktails.”
“Can you roast marshmallows on a built-in grill?”
“Well, sure.”
“That’s what I would do, if I lived there.”
“A man named Alex Barrow lives there,” Pauline said.
Just to hear the words spoken aloud—the classy-sounding “Alex” and the easy, rolling “Barrow.”
She stopped again, for a moment. But the house remained closed and blank-faced. Nobody came outside. Finally, she moved on.
Her mother-in-law was watching for them from the living-room window. Pauline saw the fishnet curtain twitch as they approached. By the time they walked in the back door, though, she was sitting in the kitchen with both hands grasping the table edge. “Where have you all been?” she cried. “I was out of my mind with worry!”
“We went to the pool, remember?”
“You weren’t coming from the pool. You were coming from the other direction.”
“We took a different way home,” Pauline said. She set her beach bag in the one clear spot on the counter, and then she started stacking the breakfast dishes under Mother Anton’s radar eyes. The woman wouldn’t venture out the door since they’d moved here for fear of getting hopelessly lost, but she knew exactly what street Pauline should be on at any given moment, it seemed.
“First I thought, Oh, well, I guess they must be enjoying themselves too much to recall it’s my lunchtime. Then I thought, What if one of them’s drowned? What if something dreadful has happened?”
“We had a nice long visit at the pool with the Derbys and the Drews,” Pauline said. “Then we came home by Candlestick Lane so as to get a little exercise.”
“Swimming wasn’t exercise enough?”
Pauline set the stack of dishes in the sink. She dampened a sponge and returned to the table, stepping around Karen, who was crooning to her doll in the middle of the floor. “What kind of soup would you like?” she asked her mother-in-law.
“I don’t know that I can eat anymore. I’ve reached the stage where I got so hungry that I’ve gone beyond hunger. My stomach has that hollow, sickish feeling.”
Pauline finished wiping the table and then chose a tin of chicken noodle from the cupboard. She had cranked the can opener completely around the rim before Mother Anton said, “Maybe vegetable beef.”
“How about chicken noodle?”
“No, I think vegetable beef.”
Pauline briefly closed her eyes. Then she set the chicken noodle aside and went back to the cupboard.
Karen was singing “Rockabye Baby.” George and Lindy were quarreling over a box of alphabet magnets. “Lindy,” Pauline said, “would you get your crayons off of my stove? They’re going to melt into a puddle.”
“I bet you stopped at Joan Derby’s afterwards for a Coke,” Mother Anton said. “That is the world’s idlest woman, I swear. Nothing better to do than loll around the pool all morning and then go back to her house and gossip with her girlfriends.”
“No,” Pauline said, “Joan was still there when we left. The children and I came straight home.”
“Well, not straight home. You just admitted as much not half a minute ago.”
Sometimes, Pauline got a feeling like a terrible itch, like a kind of all-over vibration, and she thought that at any moment she might jump clear out of her skin.
“I used to like a boy from my church who had the nicest mother,” she told Michael.
Michael had returned so late that the lunch things were cleared away, and Karen and
“Oh, it has, hasn’t it?”
Reluctantly, Pauline resumed walking. She wheeled the stroller inch by inch past Alex’s house—his brick-and-flagstone Plan C, the Maison Deluxe. “This place has a built-in grill on the patio out back,” she told Lindy. “Solid brick, with a cast-iron grate.”
Lindy peered at the house. “How do you know that?” she asked.
“We went there once for cocktails.”
“Can you roast marshmallows on a built-in grill?”
“Well, sure.”
“That’s what I would do, if I lived there.”
“A man named Alex Barrow lives there,” Pauline said.
Just to hear the words spoken aloud—the classy-sounding “Alex” and the easy, rolling “Barrow.”
She stopped again, for a moment. But the house remained closed and blank-faced. Nobody came outside. Finally, she moved on.
Her mother-in-law was watching for them from the living-room window. Pauline saw the fishnet curtain twitch as they approached. By the time they walked in the back door, though, she was sitting in the kitchen with both hands grasping the table edge. “Where have you all been?” she cried. “I was out of my mind with worry!”
“We went to the pool, remember?”
“You weren’t coming from the pool. You were coming from the other direction.”
“We took a different way home,” Pauline said. She set her beach bag in the one clear spot on the counter, and then she started stacking the breakfast dishes under Mother Anton’s radar eyes. The woman wouldn’t venture out the door since they’d moved here for fear of getting hopelessly lost, but she knew exactly what street Pauline should be on at any given moment, it seemed.
“First I thought, Oh, well, I guess they must be enjoying themselves too much to recall it’s my lunchtime. Then I thought, What if one of them’s drowned? What if something dreadful has happened?”
“We had a nice long visit at the pool with the Derbys and the Drews,” Pauline said. “Then we came home by Candlestick Lane so as to get a little exercise.”
“Swimming wasn’t exercise enough?”
Pauline set the stack of dishes in the sink. She dampened a sponge and returned to the table, stepping around Karen, who was crooning to her doll in the middle of the floor. “What kind of soup would you like?” she asked her mother-in-law.
“I don’t know that I can eat anymore. I’ve reached the stage where I got so hungry that I’ve gone beyond hunger. My stomach has that hollow, sickish feeling.”
Pauline finished wiping the table and then chose a tin of chicken noodle from the cupboard. She had cranked the can opener completely around the rim before Mother Anton said, “Maybe vegetable beef.”
“How about chicken noodle?”
“No, I think vegetable beef.”
Pauline briefly closed her eyes. Then she set the chicken noodle aside and went back to the cupboard.
Karen was singing “Rockabye Baby.” George and Lindy were quarreling over a box of alphabet magnets. “Lindy,” Pauline said, “would you get your crayons off of my stove? They’re going to melt into a puddle.”
“I bet you stopped at Joan Derby’s afterwards for a Coke,” Mother Anton said. “That is the world’s idlest woman, I swear. Nothing better to do than loll around the pool all morning and then go back to her house and gossip with her girlfriends.”
“No,” Pauline said, “Joan was still there when we left. The children and I came straight home.”
“Well, not straight home. You just admitted as much not half a minute ago.”
Sometimes, Pauline got a feeling like a terrible itch, like a kind of all-over vibration, and she thought that at any moment she might jump clear out of her skin.
“I used to like a boy from my church who had the nicest mother,” she told Michael.
Michael had returned so late that the lunch things were cleared away, and Karen and
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