that would have impressed some Third World nations, and he had ringed the perimeter of his property with bombs.
She knew this had happened somewhere near Hancock, a town not too far from Cornish and Durham.
You had to be impressed with what the troopers had accomplished that day. Somehow they'd convinced the man to walk out the front door without anyone firing another shot, and the fellow from the road crew had dinner that night with his family.
She figured there was a good chance that Terry had been involved. This had happened in his county--in what amounted to his backyard--and by the end of the standoff there were dozens of troopers there. Literally, dozens. She'd seen the pictures on TV.
It seemed to her that you probably wanted someone decisive in charge when there was a madman with a hostage and an armory in his house. Most of the time, all anyone figured the state police did was assist motorists who'd slid off the road, stop people from speeding, and catch unruly kids who were drunk. But there was a lot more to the job than that, and perhaps she could forgive Terry one marital indiscretion.
At least she would try to if their paths ever crossed again. She'd forgive him and she'd forgive herself. But she also wouldn't go out of her way to wind up naked with the man in her friend Rose's trailer.
"I saw them from the top of the ridge, and I knew they couldn't cross back over the river. What do you do? Do you take your children and run so they, too, won't see? Or do you go to your husband? Maybe some people would have run, but I didn't. I couldn't. I stayed."
VERONICA ROWE (FORMERLY POPPING TREES),
WPA INTERVIEW,
MARCH 1938
*
Laura
There had been a period in the nineteenth century when the headstones for the children who died were shaped like sleeping lambs. At least that had been the fashion in northern Vermont. One epidemic in 1857 had resulted in whole clusters of the small granite and marble animals in the Cornish cemetery.
Laura's girls' headstones were more conventional--each was an arch--though she had insisted on the whitest marble that could be found, and each had a slightly abstract carving of an angel chiseled into it: an angel's shape and an angel's wings, but no features or face.
She found the two-year anniversary easier than the first, though that by no means meant it was easy. But this year she and Terry went alone, they weren't accompanied by her parents from Massachusetts--her fine, dignified parents, he a senior officer on the verge of retirement after a distinguished career with the Federal Reserve in Boston, she his regal wife, the perfect complement to an upper-echelon financial manager--Terry's mother, or his sister and brother. They had been joined by this considerable group last year, a reenactment in too many ways of the massive funeral that had packed the small church a few days after Hillary and Megan died, and then everyone had gone back to the house, where they'd looked at pictures of the girls and tried to be cheerful. A year ago, she and Terry had taken the day off from work.
This year they hadn't. As soon as Terry had reminded Alfred not to act up at recess and the boy had climbed onto the school bus, they had walked together up the hill to the cemetery, holding in their hands two of the lilies Terry had brought home the day before, as well as a few of the gerbera daisies. They'd made two bouquets they could leave on the plots.
The girls were buried in the newest section of the cemetery, at least two or three acres away from the 1857 sheep. Laura wasn't positive, but she believed Alfred never visited this section when he wandered up here alone. It wasn't as interesting as the older parts, nor was it as panoramic. But although you couldn't see Mount Ellen or Abraham from the girls' spot, there was a nice view of the hills that rolled south into the state forest. Sometimes both Terry and Laura wished there was a tad more shade, but that wasn't a big deal and they both knew why
She knew this had happened somewhere near Hancock, a town not too far from Cornish and Durham.
You had to be impressed with what the troopers had accomplished that day. Somehow they'd convinced the man to walk out the front door without anyone firing another shot, and the fellow from the road crew had dinner that night with his family.
She figured there was a good chance that Terry had been involved. This had happened in his county--in what amounted to his backyard--and by the end of the standoff there were dozens of troopers there. Literally, dozens. She'd seen the pictures on TV.
It seemed to her that you probably wanted someone decisive in charge when there was a madman with a hostage and an armory in his house. Most of the time, all anyone figured the state police did was assist motorists who'd slid off the road, stop people from speeding, and catch unruly kids who were drunk. But there was a lot more to the job than that, and perhaps she could forgive Terry one marital indiscretion.
At least she would try to if their paths ever crossed again. She'd forgive him and she'd forgive herself. But she also wouldn't go out of her way to wind up naked with the man in her friend Rose's trailer.
"I saw them from the top of the ridge, and I knew they couldn't cross back over the river. What do you do? Do you take your children and run so they, too, won't see? Or do you go to your husband? Maybe some people would have run, but I didn't. I couldn't. I stayed."
VERONICA ROWE (FORMERLY POPPING TREES),
WPA INTERVIEW,
MARCH 1938
*
Laura
There had been a period in the nineteenth century when the headstones for the children who died were shaped like sleeping lambs. At least that had been the fashion in northern Vermont. One epidemic in 1857 had resulted in whole clusters of the small granite and marble animals in the Cornish cemetery.
Laura's girls' headstones were more conventional--each was an arch--though she had insisted on the whitest marble that could be found, and each had a slightly abstract carving of an angel chiseled into it: an angel's shape and an angel's wings, but no features or face.
She found the two-year anniversary easier than the first, though that by no means meant it was easy. But this year she and Terry went alone, they weren't accompanied by her parents from Massachusetts--her fine, dignified parents, he a senior officer on the verge of retirement after a distinguished career with the Federal Reserve in Boston, she his regal wife, the perfect complement to an upper-echelon financial manager--Terry's mother, or his sister and brother. They had been joined by this considerable group last year, a reenactment in too many ways of the massive funeral that had packed the small church a few days after Hillary and Megan died, and then everyone had gone back to the house, where they'd looked at pictures of the girls and tried to be cheerful. A year ago, she and Terry had taken the day off from work.
This year they hadn't. As soon as Terry had reminded Alfred not to act up at recess and the boy had climbed onto the school bus, they had walked together up the hill to the cemetery, holding in their hands two of the lilies Terry had brought home the day before, as well as a few of the gerbera daisies. They'd made two bouquets they could leave on the plots.
The girls were buried in the newest section of the cemetery, at least two or three acres away from the 1857 sheep. Laura wasn't positive, but she believed Alfred never visited this section when he wandered up here alone. It wasn't as interesting as the older parts, nor was it as panoramic. But although you couldn't see Mount Ellen or Abraham from the girls' spot, there was a nice view of the hills that rolled south into the state forest. Sometimes both Terry and Laura wished there was a tad more shade, but that wasn't a big deal and they both knew why
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