together, pondering whether Washington, D.C., was a city or a state.
The drops of rain were thick and cold. Arthritic fingers and toes, healed bones, and old war injuries ached throughout the town. School would be canceled in a few days. Stores would shut down. Basements would flood.
Ed O’Brian’s conference call ended on an unhappy note, and he arrived home to receive a message on his answering machine from his daughter, Georgia. He proceeded to cook dinner for her, his cranky girl, because she would be tired. He then retired to his study and began composing the speech he would deliver to his staff. “Dear friends…” it read. If his wife were alive, she would know what to say. She would tell him to write about all the years of invaluable service, the loyalty, the sadness they would all feel as this era of their lives, this town, these United States, came to a close. She was dramatic like that. Ed crumpled the paper into a ball, lit a cigar, and started a hand of solitaire. There would be no speech. Tomorrow he would start the phone tree and tell them, Looks like our luck’s run out.
At eight-twenty, Danny Willow returned home from Montie’s Bar. He found his wife crying in the dark. She said she couldn’t find a picture of the dog to show people. How could they not have a picture of Benji? It was his fault, she’d bought him that nice digital camera and he’d lost it. And look, he’d been drinking, too. She’d sent him to find Benji and instead he got drunk. No help at all. Danny took his wife’s wrinkled hand and kissed it.
Also at eight-twenty, Mary Marley rang up Colette Dubois’ Crest toothpaste and pork rinds, flipped the “Open” sign on her register to “Closed,” and took a break. Though she had never been intuitive about her children, she knew in some hidden place that the anxiety in her stomach had something to do with one of her own. She tore the heel from a loaf of day-old Italian bread and called home. She told Liz to be very careful tonight. Please don’t go out into the rain. Do you want to talk about anything? she asked. I was in a terrible mood at dinner but if you want to talk, please let me know. I can come home anytime. Nope, Liz told her, I’m just fine. Mary hung up and went back to work, chewing away at the bile in her throat. In her mind’s eye she saw a little girl in pigtails. “Mother, may I?” the little girl asked.
In Corpus Christi, Georgia read last month’s People Magazine about celebrity adoptive mothers at her son’s bedside and felt grateful that this long day was almost over.
Paul Martin thought about a broken egg that shatters into so many pieces that it can only be fixed in hindsight.
At exactly eight-twenty, Susan Marley fell down a flight of stairs. People all over Bedford stopped what they were doing and listened to a soft buzzing that droned for a few short seconds, and then was gone. Some trusted their instincts and left Bedford right then, but most did not.
PART TWO
THE BODY
TEN
Excruciatingly Tight Acid-Washed Jeans
A t eight-thirty Thursday evening, Liz Marley fidgeted with her turtleneck. Pulled it this way and that. Inspected the marks with her Cover Girl blush compact. Thumbs in the front, three long fingers on each side of her neck. She shut her compact and hid her head under her pillow. Oh, this had to be a joke. She sat back up and looked at the marks again. She tried not to cry. She hitched her breath again and again. This wasn’t happening: the thing in the woods, the dream, her neck, all just a coincidence. A flight of fancy. If her mother was to be believed, the initial stages of madness.
You. It should have been you.
A tear rolled down her cheek, and she knew she was on the verge of a full-on crying jag. This would not do. Bobby could not see her like this. He’d think she was nuts or something. He’d decide to scratch dating Susan Marley’s sister off his list of charities.
She knew how to make something bad go away.
The drops of rain were thick and cold. Arthritic fingers and toes, healed bones, and old war injuries ached throughout the town. School would be canceled in a few days. Stores would shut down. Basements would flood.
Ed O’Brian’s conference call ended on an unhappy note, and he arrived home to receive a message on his answering machine from his daughter, Georgia. He proceeded to cook dinner for her, his cranky girl, because she would be tired. He then retired to his study and began composing the speech he would deliver to his staff. “Dear friends…” it read. If his wife were alive, she would know what to say. She would tell him to write about all the years of invaluable service, the loyalty, the sadness they would all feel as this era of their lives, this town, these United States, came to a close. She was dramatic like that. Ed crumpled the paper into a ball, lit a cigar, and started a hand of solitaire. There would be no speech. Tomorrow he would start the phone tree and tell them, Looks like our luck’s run out.
At eight-twenty, Danny Willow returned home from Montie’s Bar. He found his wife crying in the dark. She said she couldn’t find a picture of the dog to show people. How could they not have a picture of Benji? It was his fault, she’d bought him that nice digital camera and he’d lost it. And look, he’d been drinking, too. She’d sent him to find Benji and instead he got drunk. No help at all. Danny took his wife’s wrinkled hand and kissed it.
Also at eight-twenty, Mary Marley rang up Colette Dubois’ Crest toothpaste and pork rinds, flipped the “Open” sign on her register to “Closed,” and took a break. Though she had never been intuitive about her children, she knew in some hidden place that the anxiety in her stomach had something to do with one of her own. She tore the heel from a loaf of day-old Italian bread and called home. She told Liz to be very careful tonight. Please don’t go out into the rain. Do you want to talk about anything? she asked. I was in a terrible mood at dinner but if you want to talk, please let me know. I can come home anytime. Nope, Liz told her, I’m just fine. Mary hung up and went back to work, chewing away at the bile in her throat. In her mind’s eye she saw a little girl in pigtails. “Mother, may I?” the little girl asked.
In Corpus Christi, Georgia read last month’s People Magazine about celebrity adoptive mothers at her son’s bedside and felt grateful that this long day was almost over.
Paul Martin thought about a broken egg that shatters into so many pieces that it can only be fixed in hindsight.
At exactly eight-twenty, Susan Marley fell down a flight of stairs. People all over Bedford stopped what they were doing and listened to a soft buzzing that droned for a few short seconds, and then was gone. Some trusted their instincts and left Bedford right then, but most did not.
PART TWO
THE BODY
TEN
Excruciatingly Tight Acid-Washed Jeans
A t eight-thirty Thursday evening, Liz Marley fidgeted with her turtleneck. Pulled it this way and that. Inspected the marks with her Cover Girl blush compact. Thumbs in the front, three long fingers on each side of her neck. She shut her compact and hid her head under her pillow. Oh, this had to be a joke. She sat back up and looked at the marks again. She tried not to cry. She hitched her breath again and again. This wasn’t happening: the thing in the woods, the dream, her neck, all just a coincidence. A flight of fancy. If her mother was to be believed, the initial stages of madness.
You. It should have been you.
A tear rolled down her cheek, and she knew she was on the verge of a full-on crying jag. This would not do. Bobby could not see her like this. He’d think she was nuts or something. He’d decide to scratch dating Susan Marley’s sister off his list of charities.
She knew how to make something bad go away.
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