asked Penny as we made our way down to Market Street in search of a bus that would take us back to the funeral home to pick up our cars.
“It’s funny,” Penny said meditatively. “That scene in there reminded me a little of our first day in Nicaragua. I mean, her crying. We’d just gotten to the hotel and everyone was exhausted but excited, Hanna more than most. She had always been a very strong supporter of the Sandinistas, was really eager to go there, to work. And then we got there, unpacked, were just ready to go down to have dinner—and she completely cracked. She started crying and kind of raking at her arms like that, and saying she didn’t know why she was here, she wasn’t supposed to be here—things that really didn’t make sense.”
“But crying because your cousin has been murdered and because your aunt reminds you she saved your life when you were four or five—surely that calls for extreme emotion.”
“Of course it does,” agreed Penny. “I’m just saying there’s something that reminds me—like an almost hysterical, out-of-control self-hatred—I don’t know. Someone gave her a tranquilizer that night in Managua and the rest of the six weeks she was absolutely great. She worked very hard, her Spanish was brilliant, she was good-tempered and so on. It was just that first night.”
“Did anything—anyone—say anything to set her off?”
“I don’t think so.” Penny shook her head. “Or if they did, it seemed so trivial that I didn’t remember it.”
Penny had to go back to the print shop and feed Antonia but I decided to take the rest of the day off. I’d been shaken by the whole experience—the service, Loie’s family, Hanna breaking down, Pauline’s bitterness. I decided to go up to the Espressomat and talk to Hadley. Maybe she’d have some ideas about where to go from here and whether I should even be pursuing any of this.
Hadley was still at Best Printing they told me when I came in, but they were expecting her soon. I took a copy of an old off our backs over to a table by the window and sat down with a decaf mocha. One of the great advantages to being Hadley’s girlfriend was that I got my coffee free.
It was a pleasant, quiet afternoon. I read about women’s struggles in different parts of the world for a while, then turned to the letters page. There was one from a woman prisoner, another from an author who disagreed with a review of her novel and one from Loie Marsh. It was brief and to the point—she disassociated herself completely from an article published about her in a women’s magazine. The writer had never contacted Loie directly, but had pieced the article together from second-hand reports from other people and other sources. She especially wanted to say that she had never said that the American Civil Liberties Union was entirely composed of sadomasochists:
“Probably no more than half are into S/M.”
Suddenly I jumped up and dashed out the door. A familiar figure had just crossed the street and was heading down the block. I might not have recognized her features, but I could certainly remember the set of those hunched hurrying shoulders. She was still carrying her flight bag.
“Pauline,” I called after her.
She jumped like a cat whose tail has been stepped on and almost hissed.
“What do you want?”
“I’m Pam—I talked to you at the service this morning. I thought you might like a cup of coffee.” I gestured to the Espressomat.
“Well,” Pauline hesitated. Her slumping was probably habitual but her evident exhaustion made it worse; her neck had practically disappeared. Her face looked like a crumpled piece of paper someone had balled up and thrown away. “I could use a cup of something. Tea.”
I took her back with me to the cafe and ordered her a pot of Earl Grey.
“You must be feeling pretty rocky,” I sympathized, only partly with ulterior motives. She did look like she needed a friendly ear. “Do you feel like talking
“It’s funny,” Penny said meditatively. “That scene in there reminded me a little of our first day in Nicaragua. I mean, her crying. We’d just gotten to the hotel and everyone was exhausted but excited, Hanna more than most. She had always been a very strong supporter of the Sandinistas, was really eager to go there, to work. And then we got there, unpacked, were just ready to go down to have dinner—and she completely cracked. She started crying and kind of raking at her arms like that, and saying she didn’t know why she was here, she wasn’t supposed to be here—things that really didn’t make sense.”
“But crying because your cousin has been murdered and because your aunt reminds you she saved your life when you were four or five—surely that calls for extreme emotion.”
“Of course it does,” agreed Penny. “I’m just saying there’s something that reminds me—like an almost hysterical, out-of-control self-hatred—I don’t know. Someone gave her a tranquilizer that night in Managua and the rest of the six weeks she was absolutely great. She worked very hard, her Spanish was brilliant, she was good-tempered and so on. It was just that first night.”
“Did anything—anyone—say anything to set her off?”
“I don’t think so.” Penny shook her head. “Or if they did, it seemed so trivial that I didn’t remember it.”
Penny had to go back to the print shop and feed Antonia but I decided to take the rest of the day off. I’d been shaken by the whole experience—the service, Loie’s family, Hanna breaking down, Pauline’s bitterness. I decided to go up to the Espressomat and talk to Hadley. Maybe she’d have some ideas about where to go from here and whether I should even be pursuing any of this.
Hadley was still at Best Printing they told me when I came in, but they were expecting her soon. I took a copy of an old off our backs over to a table by the window and sat down with a decaf mocha. One of the great advantages to being Hadley’s girlfriend was that I got my coffee free.
It was a pleasant, quiet afternoon. I read about women’s struggles in different parts of the world for a while, then turned to the letters page. There was one from a woman prisoner, another from an author who disagreed with a review of her novel and one from Loie Marsh. It was brief and to the point—she disassociated herself completely from an article published about her in a women’s magazine. The writer had never contacted Loie directly, but had pieced the article together from second-hand reports from other people and other sources. She especially wanted to say that she had never said that the American Civil Liberties Union was entirely composed of sadomasochists:
“Probably no more than half are into S/M.”
Suddenly I jumped up and dashed out the door. A familiar figure had just crossed the street and was heading down the block. I might not have recognized her features, but I could certainly remember the set of those hunched hurrying shoulders. She was still carrying her flight bag.
“Pauline,” I called after her.
She jumped like a cat whose tail has been stepped on and almost hissed.
“What do you want?”
“I’m Pam—I talked to you at the service this morning. I thought you might like a cup of coffee.” I gestured to the Espressomat.
“Well,” Pauline hesitated. Her slumping was probably habitual but her evident exhaustion made it worse; her neck had practically disappeared. Her face looked like a crumpled piece of paper someone had balled up and thrown away. “I could use a cup of something. Tea.”
I took her back with me to the cafe and ordered her a pot of Earl Grey.
“You must be feeling pretty rocky,” I sympathized, only partly with ulterior motives. She did look like she needed a friendly ear. “Do you feel like talking
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