The Good Wife by Stewart O’Nan Page A

the airbrushed family standing by the mantel. Shannon has to give her its whole history. She bought it when she was pregnant with Randy,
she couldn’t have worn it more than three or four times. It sounds like a warning, as if Patty might ruin it.
    Patty tries the suit on in the privacy of their old room (“Come on, big butt”), cinching the built-in belt over her mushy stomach. The jacket smells of mothballs; a dry cleaning tag’s still pinned through a buttonhole. It’s a little tight in the boobs and the hips. She checks herself out, craning back over her shoulder. She looks like one of the fat-assed secretaries from work.
    She comes down to the living room and models it for them, trying to muster a smile. They watch her parade around the coffee table.
    “I like it,” her mother says.
    “How does it feel?” Shannon asks.
    “The jacket’s a little tenty around the boobs.”
    “It’s not the jacket,” her mother says, tugging it down in back. Shannon pulls the collar free.
    They stand back, examining her like a statue.
    “I believe she’ll pass,” her mother says.
    “I think so,” Shannon seconds.
    Patty has no vote. All she can do is thank Shannon, say she’s a lifesaver. But upstairs she’s glad to get the suit off and back on the hanger, as if it’s been strangling her.
    They go through the bag of baby clothes, Shannon reminiscing about each piece.
    “I remember that,” her mother says, cooing over a jumper as if it’s an infant. She makes a show of reading the labels, impressed with Shannon’s taste (though most of the clothes came from her motherin-law, who their mother is desperately jealous of). Everything is cute and expensive. Patty’s glad she can smoke now. That and two cups of real coffee get her through the afternoon. She thanks
Shannon again, pecking her cheek goodbye, then tucking her bag of loot into the backseat. It’s only on the way home, with Casey’s carrier belted safely beside her, that she lets out the storm of profanity she’s been keeping in.
    At dinner, Eileen asks how Shannon is without looking at her.
    “You’re not very subtle,” Eileen says.
    “She’s helping me out,” Patty says, hoping that will be the end of it, but of course there is no end when it comes to the three of them, no neutral ground. No matter what she says, this defection will be held against her. A couple of months ago she would have just said fuck it and the two of them would have stopped calling each other for a month. Now, since she’s living there, she’s supposed to show her allegiance.
    “Look,” she says, “I’m not exactly in a position to choose who helps me, I’m just glad they are. You are—Cy, you are too.”
    “You don’t think it hurts me that she won’t set foot in my house?”
    “I’m sure it hurts,” Patty says, “but it’s not new. You’re acting like it’s a big surprise.”
    “I’m just surprised you let her get away with it.”
    “I’m not the one who told her she’s a crappy mother.”
    “She is! And I never said that. I said she should keep a better eye on her kids after Randy broke the fucking mirror.”
    Cy keeps quiet, cleaning his plate. Patty should apologize just to be done with it, but she doesn’t. Because she’s not wrong. If Eileen doesn’t understand, then tough.
    They make up later, watching TV. Eileen says she’s sorry she jumped down her throat. Patty says she’s sorry she wasn’t honest with her. There’s no winner, only a truce—and absolution: they agree that it’s Shannon’s fault for being Shannon.
    And like that they’re back to normal, which blows Cy’s mind. It’s why she’s at Eileen’s.
    There’s no question that Eileen will take the day off to go to the hearing. She even convinces Cy to get a haircut and wear his powder-blue suit.
    When Patty asks her mother point-blank if she’s going to come, her mother presses a hand to her chest as if she’s having a heart attack.
    “Of course,” she protests,