a strip of dough.
Grandmother sighed and walked back to her stool, sitting down heavily. "Yes," she said as if to herself. "Maybe you should be told that much, you being her daughter." She looked up at Beth, and her eyes were full of pain. "Yes, Hanny Lynn left because Clifton fell down the stairs. There's no question about that."
"But there are questions...," murmured Beth, beginning to weave the long strips of dough with tense fingers. She glanced at her grandmother and saw the old woman's eyes were closed.
"We never talk about it anymore," she went on musingly. "It's history now. That poor boy. He wanted to be a writer. Never got to publish anything, though, before he wasâbefore he died."
"That's sad."
"He fell so hard." Her voice became dreamy, and Beth felt sure her closed eyes were seeing into the past, into history. "He fell so hard that I think we all knew he was dead before we even ran down to see. Smashed his head open on the radiator. An unfortunate accident. The doctor said he never knew what happened." She ran her veined hands through her short white curls. "But I've always thought he must have known. In that time while he was falling, he knew."
"Knew who had pushed him?" Beth's voice was the merest breath of whisper.
"Knew the old jealousy had won in the end. If
she
couldn't have him, then no one ever would. Least of all her sister."
But which sister? Beth held her breath a moment, feeling chilled in the hot kitchen. She didn't want to hear anymore. Yet Tom would expect her to finish the interview, and she wouldn't forgive herself for running away at this point. She let her breath out heavily.
"You mean Aunt Iris, don't you, Grandmother? Aunt Iris was the jealous one, right?" It must be so.
Grandmother didn't seem to hear. She caressed the interlocking latticework of the pies, all set neatly on the counter awaiting the oven. She spoke as if in a dream. "Ah, my poor, dear Iris. Always lost whatever made you happy, didn't you? And that Hanny Lynnâ" Here Grandmother's voice grew hard and her fingers plucked angrily at the pies, tearing one carefully woven lattice. "From the moment she was born, she was a trial to you, poor little Iris...."
Beth ran from the kitchen, fighting tears.
After dinner, when the main course had been cleared, Grandmother brought in one of the peach pies. She set it in front of Grandad's place and announced that Beth had helped. Grandad gave her the thumbs-up signal. Hannah looked pleased. Aunt Iris didn't seem to hear; she just sipped her beer and closed her eyes. Tom tasted a bite and teased that the pie was just about as good as the ones he would have made if Grandmother let boys into her kitchen. Grandad responded with a laugh, but everyone else just bent over their plates, subdued.
Tom regaled the silent family with an account of his adventures that afternoon. While he was out with Romps he'd met a boy on the next block, named Mark, who had just gotten a laptop computer for his birthday and didn't know what to do with it. "Can you believe it?" asked Tom. "He's, like, a total illiterate at this point but really eager. So I said I could help him out, you know? And he invited me over tonight." He looked across the table at Hannah. "Okay, Mom?"
"Of course." She smiled. "I'm glad you've found a friend."
"I don't know, Hanny Lynn," said Grandmother with a worried frown. "Maybe we should meet this boy's parents first. We don't know those people. And kids todayâ"
"Now, Mama, I'm sure it's fine! You'll be back by ten, all right, Tom?"
Beth picked at her piece of pie.
Lucky Tom!
She longed for the chance to get out of the house. At home she'd call Violet and they'd hang out with her sisters, maybe go to a movie. Or she'd call Ray and they'd go out for Death By Chocolate at the Dessert Diner down the street from his apartment. Her appetite was nonexistent here, but back homeâ
Her thoughts were broken by the shrill ring of the telephone. Everyone started. Then
Grandmother sighed and walked back to her stool, sitting down heavily. "Yes," she said as if to herself. "Maybe you should be told that much, you being her daughter." She looked up at Beth, and her eyes were full of pain. "Yes, Hanny Lynn left because Clifton fell down the stairs. There's no question about that."
"But there are questions...," murmured Beth, beginning to weave the long strips of dough with tense fingers. She glanced at her grandmother and saw the old woman's eyes were closed.
"We never talk about it anymore," she went on musingly. "It's history now. That poor boy. He wanted to be a writer. Never got to publish anything, though, before he wasâbefore he died."
"That's sad."
"He fell so hard." Her voice became dreamy, and Beth felt sure her closed eyes were seeing into the past, into history. "He fell so hard that I think we all knew he was dead before we even ran down to see. Smashed his head open on the radiator. An unfortunate accident. The doctor said he never knew what happened." She ran her veined hands through her short white curls. "But I've always thought he must have known. In that time while he was falling, he knew."
"Knew who had pushed him?" Beth's voice was the merest breath of whisper.
"Knew the old jealousy had won in the end. If
she
couldn't have him, then no one ever would. Least of all her sister."
But which sister? Beth held her breath a moment, feeling chilled in the hot kitchen. She didn't want to hear anymore. Yet Tom would expect her to finish the interview, and she wouldn't forgive herself for running away at this point. She let her breath out heavily.
"You mean Aunt Iris, don't you, Grandmother? Aunt Iris was the jealous one, right?" It must be so.
Grandmother didn't seem to hear. She caressed the interlocking latticework of the pies, all set neatly on the counter awaiting the oven. She spoke as if in a dream. "Ah, my poor, dear Iris. Always lost whatever made you happy, didn't you? And that Hanny Lynnâ" Here Grandmother's voice grew hard and her fingers plucked angrily at the pies, tearing one carefully woven lattice. "From the moment she was born, she was a trial to you, poor little Iris...."
Beth ran from the kitchen, fighting tears.
After dinner, when the main course had been cleared, Grandmother brought in one of the peach pies. She set it in front of Grandad's place and announced that Beth had helped. Grandad gave her the thumbs-up signal. Hannah looked pleased. Aunt Iris didn't seem to hear; she just sipped her beer and closed her eyes. Tom tasted a bite and teased that the pie was just about as good as the ones he would have made if Grandmother let boys into her kitchen. Grandad responded with a laugh, but everyone else just bent over their plates, subdued.
Tom regaled the silent family with an account of his adventures that afternoon. While he was out with Romps he'd met a boy on the next block, named Mark, who had just gotten a laptop computer for his birthday and didn't know what to do with it. "Can you believe it?" asked Tom. "He's, like, a total illiterate at this point but really eager. So I said I could help him out, you know? And he invited me over tonight." He looked across the table at Hannah. "Okay, Mom?"
"Of course." She smiled. "I'm glad you've found a friend."
"I don't know, Hanny Lynn," said Grandmother with a worried frown. "Maybe we should meet this boy's parents first. We don't know those people. And kids todayâ"
"Now, Mama, I'm sure it's fine! You'll be back by ten, all right, Tom?"
Beth picked at her piece of pie.
Lucky Tom!
She longed for the chance to get out of the house. At home she'd call Violet and they'd hang out with her sisters, maybe go to a movie. Or she'd call Ray and they'd go out for Death By Chocolate at the Dessert Diner down the street from his apartment. Her appetite was nonexistent here, but back homeâ
Her thoughts were broken by the shrill ring of the telephone. Everyone started. Then
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